And So We Run Redux: Part II
by Medea Smyke
Summary: Madge and Gale made it out of the District 12 and survived the wilderness together. Now they face their new existence as members of the underground rebellion and possibly the biggest obstacle in their fledgling relationship: Katniss. AU, written Pre-MJ.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: And we're back! Huzzah! I hope you enjoy this second part and many thanks to Ceylon for continued beta support._

* * *

**And So We Run Redux – Part II**

oOoOo

**Chapter 1**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_

With a few more steps I'll clear the tree line. The tall rhododendrons scratch my face and arms as I push through them toward my target: the enormous hovercraft in the meadow.

_"__Madge__!"_ Gale hisses from behind me. "Are you crazy?" I hear him getting up to follow through the thicket, making more of a racket than I've ever heard him do in his haste. I speed up before he can catch me and risk our chance to catch the attention of whoever's onboard.

"It's all right," I cry over my shoulder, breaking into the sunlight. "Look!"

Gale stops at the edge of the plant growth, still trying to stay out of sight. His face is a mask of barely concealed anger and fear. I lead his blazing eyes toward the right with my finger. Visibly ill at ease, he steps up beside me and squints. It's the Mockingjay insignia. It has to be. And part of a name...one I know so very well.

I start waving my arms to get the attention of anyone who might be watching from inside, now terribly afraid that they'll decide nobody's here and take off. I'm jumping in place, but then my wrists are seized by Gale and he lugs me off into the thicket again. I dig my heels into the bracken, forcing Gale to slow down. He loses his hold on one of my arms and I try turning back.

"Knock it off, Madge. Hold still." His fingers bite into my shoulders as he spins me around to face him. His eyes sear into me beneath heavy eyebrows. Between that and his madcap black hair, he looks like a pissed off caveman. Which, given our current circumstances, isn't too far from the truth. Hmm. What does that make me?

"Quit clutching me," I tell him, trying to twist out of his grasp before he gets the idea to drag me off by my hair.

"It could be a ruse of the Capitol," Gale growls. He's winning this tug-of-war; we're nearly nose-to-nose. He must think reducing the distance between us will intimidate me into seeing reason. "You want to get yourself killed? And the rest of us, too?"

"No, of course not. It's not the Capitol," I protest angrily, stepping even closer, forcing him to lose ground. "It's a rebel craft. It _has_ to be. Just listen to me for a second."

"Wait." Gale holds up a finger. The sound of sliding metal rings through the metal. I follow his gaze to see a hatch open on the underbelly of the hovercraft, issuing a steel-colored ramp which reflects the sunlight. It hits the ground with a final thump.

"Time to go," Gale says in a low voice as a figure treads down the ramp. His fingers close around my wrist. "Now."

Despite the stubborn set of his jaw, I don't back down. Yes, it will be a fatal end to our day if I'm wrong about the hovercraft. But if I'm right and we miss our chance for rescue…I'm not as keen about the additional forty or fifty mile trek that still remains between us and old Thirteen, or that cabin in the woods idea, as Gale seems to be. I want to know if this is our fast ticket to Thirteen.

So I as I pull my hand away from him, I ask, "Gale, who in the Capitol would name a hovercraft after Maysilee Donner?" They don't care about the dead tributes, just their victors. And apparently, they don't care too much for them either, since they put them up for slaughter just weeks ago in the Third Quarter Quell.

Gale's eyebrows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

"Look. I mean, really look this time." I point to the name on the side of the airship: the name, the insignia. Together they have to be more than a ruse.

He grits his teeth in irritation, but complies with my request. The frustration on his face slowly turns to curiosity as his jaw goes slack. "Huh."

The figure, dressed in black, walks down the ramp. He scans the area before he's joined by another two uniforms. Together they inspect the remains of our camp, kicking around the ashes of our fire and pointing at the flattened spots in the grass were we've been sitting and sleeping.

Meanwhile, we observe them. Their black uniforms are in direct contrast to the usual white Peacekeeper garb. They don't appear to be armed, either. And their faces look wistful, maybe disappointed even, as they gaze around the meadow. One of them points to the thicket, gesturing as though he wants check it out.

"Come on," I say, tugging Gale's good arm.

Gale shoves my hand away and handles his bow. "No, you wait here. I'll go."

"Oh please," I huff. "Are you really going to take on three grown men by your own injured self, with a bow you can't even use at close range?"

He turns his ominous eyebrows on me and for the first time in a while they actually look a little scary. "Stay here."

I comply, standing stupidly within the shadow of the rhododendrons, though it rankles my nerves watching him step out into the open by himself. I feel nervous, not knowing what they'll do when they spot him. I jump when Hazelle's sleeve brushes against my arm as everyone else joins me at the edge of the thicket. Focusing on Gale and the strangers, I haven't paid any attention to what else has been going on around me. I point out the inscription and insignia to them and Mrs. Everdeen turns white.

"The Capitol wouldn't name a hovercraft after my aunt, would they?" I ask her.

She shakes her head dazedly. "They don't remember the fallen tributes. Certainly not in this manner."

Nobody says anything else as Gale slowly approaches the uniforms. They don't see him coming, too busy conferring amongst themselves, perhaps debating how far they want to pursue the people who left the camp behind. Gale stops while there is distance enough to use his weapon. Quietly, he pulls out an arrow and nocks it, but holds the bow low, almost casually.

"Who are you?" Gale's voice booms in the open air of the meadow. "What is your business here?"

All three uniforms snap to attention at the sound of his voice.

"Now then, Sonny Jim, there's no need for that," one of the uniforms calls. Gale ignores him and raises the bow.

"I'll decide that," he replies. He sounds so sure of himself that I forget the absurdity of his position, one man with a few arrows pitted against three with an entire backup waiting within the hovercraft. "Who sent you? The Capitol?"

"We are not from the Capitol," the first man to step from the ramp informs Gale. "See for yourself." He slowly reaches into his jacket pocket and Gale instantly raises his bow into a ready position. But all the man pulls out is something like a wafer or cracker. I can't make out what's on it from here, but Gale sees something that makes nearly drop his bow. What's more, the man's gesture convinces Gale to approach them.

The rest of us wait with bated breath while he confers with the strangers. He puts his arrow away and slings the bow over his shoulder, relaxing. Eventually, he gestures for us to follow. The men look surprised as we step out of the shadows.

As I get closer, I see that Gale looks wide-eyed and something else. His expression reminds me of how he looked when I told him about my role in the rebel network. A mix of incredulity and zeal?

"They're from Thirteen." he tells us. "And they're offering to take us there."

The feeling of relief is unanimous, like releasing a collective sigh.

"This is my family," he tells the men, not bothering to differentiate between Everdeens and Hawthornes or Bristel and me.

"That's us. Gale's harem," Bristel quips under his breath, taking exception to Gale's automatic assumption of leadership. I elbow him as the men give him quizzical looks. Bristel just winks and amends, "Sorry. Crew."

I shush him, though it's more to stop myself from giggling than anything. If Gale takes himself too seriously, Bristel doesn't take Gale seriously at all.

"I'm Captain Pike. This is 1st Lt. Grayson and 2nd Lt. Takei. After what happened in your district we're pleased to find any survivors." He turns to Hazelle, probably assuming by her looks that she's Gale's mother. "Your boy here just explained that you were on your way to the Underground. Well, we have a much easier way of getting there."

"And you can tell us what has been going on in Panem? We've been completely cut off from everything," Hazelle says to Captain Pike.

"In good time," he replies. "First, let's get you aboard."

We follow Captain Pike to the hovercraft. Gale steps alongside me, looking awkward and out of his element. After a few false starts he mumbles, "You were right."

I figure this is sort of an apology for the mild shouting and nearly pulling my arms out of my sockets, as well as not believing me. I'll take what I can get though, and give him a smile. "A ride sounds good to me."

We board the ramp single file and enter some sort of receiving room. Another uniform stands at a control panel, probably controlling the ramp and hatch. The walls are completely bare except for a few blinking lights, offering no clues into the ship or the people who operate the hovercraft.

Without thinking, I run my hand over the smooth façade. It feels strange to touch something that isn't made out of a tree or rock. Now that we're inside I'm assaulted by all kinds of sights and smells that I've forgotten about, like fluorescent lighting bleaching the color out of the fiberglass walls and the musty tang of re-circulated air and the rubbery smell of the floor panels. And then there's the ceiling overhead, blocking out the sky completely for the first time since I fled the district.

My relief turns into mild claustrophobia. It feels oddly cramped about the Maysilee, though it's bigger than any house I've ever been in. I notice Gale look back over his shoulder toward the closing hatch and the way his lips press into a thin line as the grass disappears. I know how he feels. Yet my desire to creep back into to the sweet-smelling woods is curtailed by the promise of technology's greatest triumph, the shower. I can swallow my discomfort in exchange for hot, cleansing water that comes from out a nozzle and immediately disappears down a drain. No swimming. No fishy smell. Temperature control…

My reverie is broken when the captain dismisses his officers. He introduces another man, also in uniform, but with a nifty shaped hat, who appears though a sliding door I didn't notice. It closes behind him, leaving no traces of a seam, which explains how I didn't see it before. I wonder if I'm going to have to walk around stupidly crashing into walls trying to find the openings if all the doors are like that.

Captain Pike claps the man on the shoulder. "This is Corporal Leonard. He'll be your escort." To Leonard he says, "Have the purser add them to the ship's manifest. Then see that they are given something to eat."

Eat? I want a shower and a place to collapse, too. What about that?

"Yes, sir," the corporal replies. The door at the opposite end of the room slides open again when the captain signals to the officer behind the control panel and we can see down a long corridor. Our escort leads us down the nondescript passage into a cabin where a man sits at a desk working over an accounts book while his glasses slip down his thin nose. The room is the size of a broom closet and we have to squeeze in around each other to fit.

Leonard breaks through and squashes up against the desk, looking red-faced after the effort. "Mr. Doohan, Captain has a few more for your records."

"Thank you, Corporal," the purser says drily, as seeing us in front of his desk is indication enough. "You may wait outside." The purser waves our escort away without looking up. Dismissed, Leonard digs his way out again.

After a minute or two of awkward silence, he puts away the accounts and pulls out another log. Then he turns to us with a rusty smile. "Your names? By family and region, if you please."

Gale steps forward for his family. "Hawthorne, Hazelle…with two L's…Gale…er, no, like a very strong wind not a lady…Rory, Vick and Posy of District 12."

Next, Doohan speaks to Mrs. Everdeen, then Bristel. The man's face flushes as the list grows and there's something twinkling in his eyes.

When the purser's eyes fall on me, I step forward and say, "Undersee, Margaret. Also of Twelve."

"Your name is Margaret?" Gale whispers.

I roll my eyes, feeling a little rankled that Gale doesn't know my full name. I shouldn't be surprised, though. Hardly anyone ever calls me Margaret. Still, I ask, "What do you think Madge is short for?"

He shrugs. "I didn't know it was _short_ for anything."

The purser sits back in his chair and takes off his glasses to clean them on his shirt. He whistles. "Hawthorne, Everdeen, Undersee." He sits up straight again and puts stars by our last names in the log. "One moment please."

Doohan picks up a radio mouthpiece and after punching a button, speaks into it. "Albatross One, this is Eagle Three. Radio check, over."

"Eagle Three, this is Albatross One. Read you rum toddy." We hear on the radio. Vick steps up to the desk to hear better, giving the purser a look of open curiosity at their strange manner of speaking.

"Albatross One, this is Eagle Three. Bingo. Do you copy?" he says, oblivious to our fascination.

After the equally strange affirmative involving first names and birds, the purser hangs up the mouthpiece.

"Do you want to elaborate on that?" Bristel asks. "Also, I could go for a rum toddy."

Doohan leans forward on his desk, hands steepled under his nose. He thinks for a moment or two. "A few days ago one of our recon teams discovered a large camp of people displaced from District 12. We've spent every minute since then scanning the surrounding areas for more pockets of refugees. Yesterday a list circulated by one of our leaders appeared with the names of several individuals that he is particularly keen to find. Your names top that list."

"We didn't do it," Rory interjects, gesturing toward Vick, Bristel, and himself. "I swear. The dynamite was Gale's idea."

I'd completely forgotten about how they blew up the fence and for a moment a pained, wistful expression crosses everyone's faces like we're all thinking about that night again.

Doohan blinks at the Rory, cocking his head in confusion. "You aren't in any trouble, young man. Er, nothing's been said about dynamite…However, it does mean your stay on the Maysilee will be a short one. Your friends will be pleased to have you back."

"Friends?" Gale asks. "What friends?"

…

We're going fast," Posy points out as she presses her nose against the glass windows for the hundredth time to watch the trees fly by beneath us.

I hold out my hand to her since Gale's been favoring his arm after carrying her over his shoulder this afternoon when they were running from the hovercraft. "Come on, Posy. We need to keep up." She takes my hand reluctantly and we continue to follow our escort down the curved corridor hedging the ship. Glass panels form the exterior around the front of the ship, allowing us to see the land fly by. Doors and alcoves line the opposite side of the corridor, and I wonder what's behind them. Men and women in black uniforms pass us by. They glance our way, but don't say anything. Occasionally, someone will nod at Leonard, but that's all. What are they all rushing off to?

I won't get to find out, since we're rushing off ourselves. Sans food. Sans shower. Sans information. To Albatross One…or the UTS Cole. UTS stands for Underground Thirteen Ship, according to the corporal. He doesn't know who the person is that the ship's named after. Cole does sound vaguely familiar, though that may be a District Twelve thing…cole…coal…

"All right." Leonard turns around to face us as he walks. He pushes his hat high on his head. "Here we are at the transporter room. We're going to teleport you—"

Rory stops in his tracks, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

"Heh. No." Leonard shakes his head. "That was an inside joke. A little hovercraft humor for you. Sorry. Teleportation is sort of a myth. Actually, we're just going to shuttle you over to the Albatross in a smaller hovercraft."

"Lame," Rory mutters under his breath.

Leonard grins. "Don't be too disappointed. You're riding in the stud-muffin of hovercrafts today." Punching in a combination into a square code pad, he unlocks the hydraulic door. He leads us down a flight of stairs into a room, which is really an indoor launch pad the size of four justice buildings. A few greasy mechanics confer with one another off to the side. Rows of bays, some empty, some berthing various hovercraft corvettes, form a horseshoe around the tarmac. The so-called stud of a hovercraft waits for us, already pulled out onto the launch pad. A short stair of three steps leads up to the hatch. But what catches my eye is the smirking man with green hair painted in a lounging position on the side of the craft and the word _Hobgoblin_ scrawled to the left of it.

"Hell's teeth," Gale mutters as he takes in the august pinup. "What is that?"

Our escort takes Gale's reaction as a sign of enchantment. He runs his hand affectionately over the pristine silver-colored frame.

"This is a Bezra-77, easily one of the sex—er, smartest passenger crafts in and outside of Panem," Leonard stammers, catching himself before he says something Posy shouldn't be able to repeat. "Er, where's that cargo bin…"

He finds the door on the side that lifts open, revealing space for our bags. One by one we stash everything away. Then there's nothing to do but wait.

Leonard checks his watch. "Your pilot should be around here somewhere..."

The door behind us hisses open again. "Ah, here he is," the corporal says with relief and something bordering on awe. "Everyone, this is Captain Quintus McFarlane. Easily one of our best pilots and—"

"Cut it out, Leo." The captain waves his hand as he saunters down the stairs, like he's diffusing the compliments hanging in the air around him. "You'll give them ridiculously high expectations of me."

Bristel snorts. "Impossible, I'm sure."

Well, he can be as sarcastic as he wants, but I can't help that my jaw unhinged as soon as the man stepped through the door. I've never seen anybody like Captain McFarlane in real life. Tipped in green, his hair stands out from his head at strange angles just like the pinup on the side of the Bezra, only the real man has a pair of aviator goggles pushed up over his forehead.

Gale stiffens next to me as Quintus confidently strides past in one of the tightest black uniforms I have ever seen. On the back of his leather jacket, large Q and M monograms are emblazed in green sequence. He shakes hands with Hazelle and Mrs. Everdeen, and even little Posy when she holds out her hand. "Enchanted," he says.

"Looks like he got in a fight with a tackle box and lost," Bristel quips. He means the lip and nose studs, as well as the rings in his ears.

"He looks like a Capitol tool," Gale replies under his breath. I have to agree. I mean, about the Capitol part. The man clearly came from Panem's central city, since nobody in the districts has enough money to dress that flamboyantly or modify themselves as extensively, unless he or she is a victor. And really, it just takes a special flavor of person to pull off a Quintus McFarlane – and that type is almost exclusively born and bred in the Capitol.

We watch in bemusement as the pilot confers with our escort. "Thanks, Leo," he says, wrapping up their conversation. "Next time I see you, we'll be in the Underground."

Quintus faces around again and we jump awkwardly when he catches us staring. But if he noticed our rude behavior he doesn't say so. Instead, with a wide grin he gestures toward the hatch.

"Well, folks, hop in."

The mothers, Gale, and Bristel seem immune to Quintus's charm, or maybe a little annoyed by it, but the kids and I file past him like a bunch of shy, moonstruck sheep piling into the fuselage. I can't help looking up though when it's my turn to get in. He winks down at me and I swear his white teeth sparkle. I blush and hastily follow Gale to a seat.

I sink down into the synthetic upholstery and barely stifle a moan. Gale gives me a smirking sidelong glance, but I don't care. He can be mister tough guy – but I like comfort! My bones are on their own little euphoric trip. When is the last time I sat or slept on something soft without rocks and stick or burrs digging into my skin?

As Quintus powers up the corvette, I can't help but think how surreal this experience is. After living in the woods and meadows for a little over two weeks, I forgot what technology feels like. It doesn't seem like a long time, but it is. Everything seems louder, with constant artificial droning and clanking. But I'll take it, I guess. I grin at myself, remembering my reluctance a little over an hour ago when the hatch closed us into the Eagle. Ha. That really didn't take long, did it? I also forgot how good it feels to get somewhere without having to use my own legs.

Quintus gives us a quick briefing giving us the location of little white bags under our seats when the gigantic garage door, or whatever it's called on a hovercraft, rumbles open. I guess we were supposed to take that as a warning because in seconds we go from completely still to shooting out into the open air. My body slams into the back of the seat from the speed of acceleration.

Whoa. Now I see why Leonard called this thing a stud. I just hope my organs re-inflate and go back to their assigned places.

"You won't mind if I put in some music?" Quintus asks over the noise of the hovercraft. "Just a mix I put together to keep me awake, you know?"

Hazelle and Mrs. Everdeen exchange worried glances. Gale's mom tightens the safety straps around Posy and Vick. Nobody decides to deny him. Awake is good.

Although some of us are second-guessing this wisdom once the open guitar riff breaks through the sound system. Prim plugs her ears and I'm tempted to do the same. I feel like my skull is going to split as some guy with a thin, crackly voice starts shouting through the speakers.

But Gale's expression transforms from its usual stony coldness to grudging admiration then on to open curiosity. He leans forward in his seat.

"What is this?" he calls up to the front.

"Just some old stuff from way back before Panem," Quintus replies. "Love me my ancient American music."

"Not bad," Gale agrees, leaning back.

"You should hear this one. I like to play it before I land." Quintus punches a button on the control panel, turns a nob, and a new track begins to play.

The opening drum sequence sounds like somebody's trying to dig around in really rocky soil with little success, and then the bass and guitar start grinding along with it. The cords seems too repetitive to me, but Rory bobs his head to it. Gale's head bobs once. He catches himself and slyly looks from side to side to see if anyone noticed.

The singer sounds like a drunk lizard with a very, very basic grasp of English. No wonder the ancient American culture died out.

Mrs. Everdeen and Hazelle share a look. I can tell by the set of the tense angle of their eyebrows that they're getting headaches too. I gaze wondering at Gale, who is clearly bonding with the captain over this music. My stomach sinks. It never occurred to me to wonder if we had compatible taste in music – I mean, getting together at all seemed too far-fetched. All I know is that I cannot play this music on the piano. Gale must have felt like this when he finally accepted that I am not a swimmer.

He catches me staring at him when he begins to drum his fingers on the armrest. "What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

Sinking deeper into the chair, I brace myself for the rest of the flight. Oh boy.

…

"What is that thing?" Rory asks, staring out his window. "It looks like a huge grey chicken."

"Albatross. The largest hovercraft available, military or commercial," the captain answers with a grand flourish. "The UTS Cole awaits."

After some more indecipherable radio speak, the Hobgoblin receives clearance to land. A giant maw opens in the side of the Albatross and Quintus gently glides the Bezra into the tarmac. When he gives us the cue to take off our safety restraints, I stand up on shaky legs. I've never flown before and now I've been on a total of three hovercrafts. Not bad, really. But it did something strange to my limbs. And my boots feel really tight.

Gale stands up too eagerly and smacks his head on the roof. He curses while rubbing the sore spot, all but pushing me down the aisle toward the stair that ground crew wheeled up.

On the tarmac, we mill around waiting for our pilot to unlock the cargo bin where our bags were stowed. He hands off each one until there's nothing left. Since I didn't have one, I opted to stand by the hatch.

Quintus closes the cargo bin then wipes his hands off on his pants. He looks over and gives me a nod. "What's your name?"

"Madge," I try to tell him with as much poise as possible.

He reaches out to shake my hand. "Nice to have you around, Madge."

My insides turn to mush under the gaze of his green eyes, the first I've ever seen. "You too…um, er…thanks, Captain Mc—"

"Call me Quintus," he says, still holding my hand.

Behind Quintus, Gale clears his throat and I drop his hand like a hot poker. Gale steps around the pilot and takes my elbow. "Ready?" he asks. I can't really see his face since he's standing just behind me, but his voice sounds…a little put out.

Quintus smirks over my shoulder at him then gives me a conspiratorial wink. "Time to go," he says. "I'll find your escort."

_Yeah_. _No kidding_, I think as he strides off. My brain fell out when he started speaking and now I need to find it.

"Nice guy," Gale grumbles like he doesn't think Quintus is at all nice now that they aren't bonding over junk yard music. He's wearing a sour expression on his face and I feel a twinge of guilt. I can't help feeling enamored by Quintus's larger-than-life persona, but I certainly don't feel for him what I feel for Gale. I mean, no contest.

"He is a nice I guy, I guess," I reply, my voice a little too breathy for the tone of indifference I'm trying for. It doesn't improve Gale's countenance. I elbow him gently in the ribs. "But then, you like his music."

He doesn't appreciate the reminder. "Hmph. You like his tight—"

"Escort's here," Bristel says as he passes by, heading in the direction of a balcony that leads into the rest of the hovercraft.

Gale shoulders his bag and follows before I can protest about my affinity for Quintus McTightpants, er McFarlane. I don't like the pilot, I remind myself as I catch up with Gale, but he has charm. There isn't anything wrong with that.

Our escort introduces himself as Volks. He leads us through a corridor that makes the Maysilee halls look like clogged arteries. The sheer size of the deck –the Albatross has several – could fit two Eagles. How did Thirteen get their hands on this? I does make me wonder what they've been up to in the last seventy-five years and wonder what took them so long to make their presence known. Our escort doesn't offer up any information, though. Unlike Leonard, he isn't much of a tour guide.

Volks leads us down a moving ramp that looks like a giant treadmill. Gale, who isn't impressed with this technology, opts to walk alongside it on the normal, non-mobile footpath. He does think it's funny, though, when Vick tries to walk on it backward and doesn't go anywhere.

Eventually the treadmill ramp ends and we walk a short ways until Volks ushers us into an antechamber. Chairs line the walls while an empty Formica table commands the center. Our shoulders slump in perfect unison – a waiting room.

The escort promises that somebody will bring food and drink, then leaves before we can ask about quarters or, you know, who's been circulating our names to the rebels.

Food comes quickly. It's delivered to us by a man and a woman dressed in the same black uniforms that everyone seems to be wearing. I wonder when they'll issue our jumpsuits? I also wonder if they'll include clean underwear.

"Everyone around here wears black. Are you sure we're with the good guys?" Bristel asks the woman as she sets out a tray of sandwiches.

The woman gives him a stony glare. "Black is the color of rich soil," she tells him, as if that explains everything. I wonder if she's actually from District Eleven.

"Okay," Bristel says, playing along. "It's also the color of coal. I bet there's still some under my fingernails if you want to see?"

The lady sniffs indignantly and leaves.

_Weird_, he mouths toward the rest of us, then shoves a sandwich in his mouth.

After two hours of eating, pacing and more waiting, two medics arrive. They look us over, asking invasive questions, like if we've come into contact with rabid animals or the plague, or if we've had unnatural relations with sticks. One points out where some of the scabs have left scars on my face and arms. At first they panic, thinking I'm carrying smallpox or something. Eventually they calm down enough, with some help from Gale and his eyebrows of doom, for me to explain that it's from poison ivy and not from kissing a rat.

When they set eyes on Gale they turn practically giddy. And not because he's tall, dark, and handsome, which is usually my excuse. It's more like he's fresh meat. Turns out our new buddies from Thirteen are fresh out of medical school. And referring to it as a school is generous.

They take in the bandages, stitches, bruises, and burns. It's obvious that he's favoring his injured arm, which they seize upon. They put Gale in a splint, ignoring Mrs. E completely as she tries to explain that his arm isn't broken. Sprained, maybe. Cut definitely. But they don't want to take advice from some herbalist in a backward district. And they don't have access to x-ray technology at this point in time. Right.

We all breathe a little easier when they leave, except for Gale who is cursing non-stop under his breath and trying to shake off the splints, while hurting himself. Hazelle actually threatens to wash his mouth out with soap while she covers Posy's ears.

Then the door slides open one more time. It's not a uniform, though.

It's Haymitch. We're all so surprised nobody thinks of anything to say, but Mrs. Everdeen immediately gets to her feet.

Ignoring Katniss's mother, he walks in, points a meaty finger at Gale and says, "You. Come with me."

* * *

**To be continued…**

Quintus: looking better in black than the widows of our…oops. Wrong fandom. Anyway, he is back in black (if that doesn't clue you in to the Ancient American music he was listening to, lol) and he asks that you don't tease me about the made-up radio speak and blatant use of Star Trek actors. ;)

_Thanks for reading! _


	2. Chapter 2

**Katnissgirl0369**: Thanks for reviewing! :D

**nYT** **oNYx**: Thanks for your kind words! This a MadgeXGale ship, alas. Ye be warned. ;)

**meeeeeeeeeeee**: Oh yeah. Haymitch isn't going to waste any time. Thanks for reviewing!

**Woven**: If you're reading this, I'm so glad you've enjoyed my stories. Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

**AN: **Welcome to chapter 2, in which Haymitch pisses everyone off. For those of you who haven't read all the prequels leading up to Redux, in Part I, Madge explains to Gale a little bit about her role in the rebellion, though Haymitch has certainly not revealed the full scope of the operation to her. Anyway, in medea!verse, Madge worked alongside Darius, our favorite Peacekeeper turned Avox. And it was partially Madge's fault that he stepped in to help Gale and got in trouble. For the scoop, you can refer to my story, _Repaid_.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

_Gale's POV

* * *

_

The door slides open with a hydraulic hiss.

I drop the sandwich I've been working on when I see Haymitch Abernathy standing in the doorway, looking the worse for wear, shrunken. His face is a mess of whiskers, black circles, and even some scabbed-over gashes. His body looks deflated since we saw him last. His paunch deflated, hanging off his frame like he lost weight far too quickly. Even his cheeks, always puffy from drink, have a hollow quality. The one eye that isn't swollen shut has sunk behind a black circle. It sweeps the room in seconds, then lands on me. He points at me and snarls, "You. Come with me."

At first I just stare at him, wondering if he's real. His voice is real enough though. My jaw tightens in response to the order, but I get up anyway – I'm _that_ surprised to see Haymitch in the flesh. What the hell is he, of all people, doing on a hovercraft in the middle of the wilderness? Judging by the Capitol's retaliation on District 12, our victor should be jailbait, a traitor against the Capitol drowning in a puddle of his own vomit. He'd make torture easy for them; simply withhold the bottle and his body would supply the mind games and pain until every last shred of his resistance dissolves into a cooperative stupor. He'd spill anything he thought would be useful for them to know about Katniss, the face of the rebellion. The one person he'd failed the most.

_Or Haymitch should be dead too, if he had any sense of_ _decency_, I think as I pick up the spilled contents of my sandwich and toss it all on the table. From the wings of absolute triumph, the mentor returns to us in abject failure. He brought home two victors only to save neither. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like the ashes falling around Twelve.

The door closes behind us and I stalk after him down the corridor. Despite that fact that we're almost evenly matched in height, and I'm definitely the slighter of the two, it's hard for me to keep up with his strides.

"Broken arm?" he barks over his shoulder.

"No. Idiot medics," I grouse, because who cares? "How are you even here—"

Haymitch stops short and shoves me against the wall as people pass by, giving us curious glances before scuttling off. I grunt in surprise. I didn't know he could move that swiftly, or that I could piss him off without even finishing a sentence. His breath reeks – but not of alcohol, strangely enough. "Let's cut to the chase, Hawthorne. I can't stand you young hero types with your ideals and visions of social justice. And I'm not your cup of gin, either." He gives me a second to deny this, but we both know I won't. I always thought he was a stupid oaf. Oddly, the silent affirmation puts Haymitch in a slightly better mood. He's almost affable when he says, "I've got a job for you. I'll tell you about it, but no emo scenes or I'll throw your ass off this hovercraft myself." Well, maybe not affable.

I nod curtly. "Fine."

Threats and bottled emotions – I can handle that, better than he knows. Haymitch marches off again, but slower this time so I can stay in stride.

"We're headed toward sick bay. Your _cousin_'s been having a grand old time knocking her brains out—"

The toe of my boot scuffs the floor tiles and I trip, but manage to keep my balance by anchoring my hand against the wall. "Katniss?" I stammer so loudly that people passing us in the corridor stop and stare this time. Haymitch couldn't hit me harder with a battering ram that could outmatch the sudden blow to my chest. I lean against the wall completely, staggering under the pressure.

_She's alive?_ skitters through my skull over and over again, but it threatens to come out sideways when I speak. So I spit, "She's not my damn cousin." I glare at the people still staring and they decide to beat it.

Haymitch grunts. I ignore it. My mind is too busy rewinding the past two or three weeks (I've lost track), trying to view everything that happened under this new reality. It requires a complete turn-around in my mental processes. It could make a guy feel a little crazy…

"Don't you start crying or I swear," Haymitch growls. He points out the glass panels to the forest floor to remind me of his earlier threat.

I glare at him through a misty haze in front of my eyes. "I don't cry," I manage to choke out the lie. He's right, though, so I shut down those thoughts. I'll think about it later when I have more privacy to lose it. "What do you want me to do?"

Haymitch grunts. "Right. Katniss is alive. The wounds she received in the Quell have healed. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"We've got other problems. She won't eat. They've got her on sedatives because when she's awake, she uses other means to put herself out." By the look on his face, I gather that I don't want to know her methods. Why would she do that to herself? "The medics put her on—"

"Peeta – he's here too?" I interrupt. Losing him is the only reason, besides losing her family, why she'd snap like that. I know I should hate how even in my mind those two are automatically cataloged together, but I'm a robot at this point, and don't feel the gall of that knowledge.

Haymitch gnashes his teeth and it takes great effort for him to simply admit, "No."

I'm just gleaning information at this point, not letting the implications get to me. But I have to ask. "Dead?"

"That is unknown at this point," he replies stiffly. "And not for you to worry about right now."

"That's not true, and you know it," I challenge. "Whatever happened to him will affect Katniss and that means I'll have to…" What? Pick up the pieces? Is that my role? God, I thought she was dead. I don't even know what my place is with her anymore. A shot of betrayal breaks through the barricade of emotions, leaving a white-hot streak of anger across the numbness.

"You're right," he allows. "After this mess, Katniss doesn't trust the rest of us. Maybe Finnick…" He's lost in thought for a moment, but shakes himself out of it. "But she won't listen to a word I say. For the sake of this rebellion, and maybe even Peeta, we need a go-between. That'd be you."

Thanks for asking.

"How?" I grouse. Especially when I don't trust him myself – and the rebellion? What do I know about that?

"Start by bringing her up to date with what happened in Twelve," he says like a half-assed drill sergeant. "That'll be your job today."

"Wait, she doesn't know yet? It happened weeks ago!" I reproach.

"And make her mental state worse?" Haymitch retorts. "You got a lot to learn."

I'll be the first to admit that. Katniss and I are both in need of an update. The world I know keeps morphing until I don't know what I know anymore. I wonder which of us will handle it better? "You want me to tell her that her home is gone?" I ask. "Don't you think her mother and sister should see her first? Sort of help soften the blow?" It isn't that I'm not eager to see Katniss, it just doesn't seem right to be first. "It'd be easier to swallow if she could at least see them."

Haymitch glares at me, though maybe that's just his usual expression. "I'm more worried about them seeing her the way she is. You want the little girl running in there while her sister's throwing a catatonic fit? Not a chance. I need you to go in there, tell her how things went down at home, and keep her from bludgeoning herself into a vegetable. Can you handle that?"

_Are you nuts? _is what I'm thinking.

"Yes," is what I tell Haymitch. His bleak description of her mental state leaves me feeling admittedly unsure of myself. I push myself off the wall, standing straighter than usual. _In the face of uncertainty, look overly sure_, that's what I've told myself over and over since my father died and the task of keeping my family alive fell to me. My steps are even as I take the lead down the hallway. I don't know where we're going, but you wouldn't know it by looking at me.

Then I ask, "Why didn't you tell her about Twelve right away?"

He points to the thin gashes running from his eyebrows to halfway down his cheek. "We're not on speaking terms."

My hands automatically ball into fists, knowing Katniss attacked him for a reason. I shove my fists into my pants pockets, burying the anger I feel on her behalf along with everything else.

"Why's that?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Why do you think?" he sneers back.

I don't know. I'm not in the mood for guessing.

"I had to make a choice between Katniss or Peeta," Haymitch growls. I pick out a note of defensiveness, and underneath that…regret? "She doesn't like my decision, but I have my priorities. Not just my priorities – the rebellion's priorities. We need our Mockingjay," he says as we pass through glass double doors – the medical ward.

Mockingjay? So that's what they're calling her. I can't say that I blame Haymitch. I recognized Katniss's potential to influence Panem to break from the Capitol, to rebel. Sounds like she still hasn't warmed to the idea, though.

"Now you're the only one I can think of who can get through to her when she's like this." Haymitch knocks the heel of his palm against his forehead for emphasis. The gesture quells any optimism that my efforts will work. "When you're done, she should be able to see her mother and sister without falling to pieces. Got it, son?" He stops in front of a door with a long, slim window in the middle of it. He jabs a thumb at it. "She's in there."

Hell's teeth – I think _he's _the crazy one here if he thinks I have the ability to accomplish this. After what I saw on TV, the determination and hunger on her face when she said goodbye to Mellark. If she's crazy, only one person can cure it. And it's not me. But I shrug my shoulders and say, "I'll try."

Haymitch grunts and I gather that his expectations for success are low, as well. He stalks off without another word and I'm left to face the door, and the girl on the other side of it, alone.

I stare it down for a good minute.

She's alive. I chant it, unable for the life of me to figure out what is going on in my head, or if I'm prepared for this.

Not that I have a choice. I turn the knob, stepping over the threshold. A sound, a name falls from my lips. It feels awkward and rusty, like it's part of a forgotten language.

"Catnip?"

…

_Madge's POV_

We watch Mrs. Everdeen stare blankly at the door as if she expects Haymitch to return and explain his appearance on this hovercraft. Despite her behavior the last few days I feel badly for her. Seeing Haymitch's face again felt like getting punched in the chest – I can't imagine what it must feel like for the Everdeens.

Hazelle reaches out for Prim, who's holding a cracker halfway to her mouth. Her eyes are wet, watching her paralyzed mother. The younger girl folds into Hazelle arms and starts to cry. This is the strongest emotional response I've seen from Prim since the firebombing. She's become surprisingly good at hiding the depth of her emotions, almost as good as Katniss. But the confusion of seeing her sister's mentor alive is too much for her.

Prim sniffles between sobs and wipes the moisture away with the back of her hand. Rory appears at Hazelle's side with a napkin. He awkwardly clears his throat and offers it to Prim.

"Uh, here." Rory's voice sounds a little more stiff than kind; it reminds me of times when Gale tries to do considerate for me. It isn't that they're afraid of being nice or affectionate, exactly. I've seen Rory wrap his arm around his mother's shoulder and tell her that she's the best woman in the world with complete sincerity. But the way he chews on his bottom lip right now, like he's struggling to put a sentence together alerts me to a nervous energy I've never noticed between Rory and Prim. If they were older I'd think he was sweet on her or something. I mean, I knew who I liked when I was twelve, but right now it's probably just that I'm overtired and imaging things.

Rory shifts his weight onto his other leg and stares at the floor. "Er, it'll be all right. I think."

"Thank you, Rory," she murmurs, always polite and trying to smile through her tears for him. But her lips quiver into a frown and she hides her face in the napkin. Hazelle tucks her closer, giving her son a look of quiet praise.

"Right. Sure," Rory stammers. He returns to his seat between Bristel and Vick, blinking dazedly like he isn't quite certain about what compelled him to leave his chair. Bristel elbows him in the ribs. "What was that for?" he mutters, rubbing his bruised side.

Bristel just shrugs and winks at me like a co-conspirator. I shake my head, discouraging any more teasing. Prim needs friends and I'd hate for anyone to make Rory feel awkward for trying to behave like one.

"How long do you think they'll make us wait in here?" I ask Hazelle.

"Who knows?" She glances worriedly at Mrs. E. "Not long, I hope."

Posy hands me a bottle of juice she nabbed from the table and wants opened, then crawls into my lap since her mother's is full.

"Maybe we can share this?" she whispers in my ear, as if she expected someone to overhear and snatch the juice away. I glance at the table where several more bottles sit unopened. Plenty for everyone.

"I think you can have this all to yourself," I reply. Why shouldn't she, poor thing? I feel a surge of anger toward anyone who would deny her anything she needs, especially something as basic as a drink. But by five years old, this little girl is already accustomed to deprivation – expects it even when she can _see_ plenty around her. One bottle out of a dozen.

"Where's Gale?" she asks me between sips.

"I don't know, Posy," I tell her, using my cuff to wipe away some of the juice that's dribbling down her chin.

She screws the lid back on the bottle crookedly and tucks it under her arm. "I'll save the rest for him. I think he's thirsty."

"I'm tired," Vick says through a yawn. I have no idea what time it is in this windowless room, but it's been a long day regardless if it's afternoon or evening. And now that we're full of food, it's even harder to fight against drowsiness.

Bristel gets up and brushes past Mrs. Everdeen. He sticks his head out the door and calls to anybody walking past. "Hey, in case you folks haven't noticed, we're been stuck in this room for a while. As much as I appreciate sitting in a real chair again, the plastic's making my butt go numb. If you wouldn't mind—"

Somebody replies, but it's hard to tell what is being said.

"Oh. Thanks very much." Bristel closes the door and grins at us. "I've always wanted to order people around like that. Gives me a feeling of power."

"What did they say?" Rory asks.

"Somebody told me to shut my cakehole, but then some uniform said she'd check on the situation with our quarters." He shrugs and sits down gingerly. "Ack. Feelings coming back. I'm all tingly."

Not ten minutes later, an attendant comes in. The women looks taken aback when she nearly runs into Mrs. E, who's still standing by the door.

"Oh! Sorry." She faces the rest of us, trying to look composed. "Your rooms are ready, if you'll follow me."

Prim dries her face with a fresh napkin, then threads her arm through Mrs. Everdeen's. "Come on, Mama. We'll get your bag and find your herbs." I watch her lead her mother away. So much responsibility rests on the younger girl's shoulders. It's like watching myself help Mother up the stairs of our home when one of her migraines is coming on. I shut down the memory before it makes my chest hurt.

Hazelle stands up and urges her children to go before her as the lady gestures for everyone to file out. Vick leads the way, then Rory and Bristel. Posy takes Hazelle's hand and cuddles her juice bottle with the other. They follow the boys.

The attendant touches my arm when I step into the corridor. "Miss Undersee?"

Startled, I reply, "Yes?"

"I've been instructed to tell you that Mr. Abernathy would like to speak with you."

"Right now?" I ask, or whine, as one more thing comes between me and a shower.

She smiles. "I'm sorry. He's in a meeting room at the very end of the corridor."

I swallow, feeling nervous and ragged and weary. "Alright."

While the attendant shepherds the rest of the group in the direction of their rooms, I start down the hall toward Haymitch, very much wishing that things were reversed and that I was headed to my room. I'm not at all prepared to see him. I'm feeling so many things, relief at seeing him alive – seeing _anyone_ from the district alive, impressed by the scale of the rebellion and his ability to keep it all a secret, anger for withholding from me after helping him…bitterness for what happened in the district. And great aching sadness. For my parents, for Katniss and Peeta – for anyone who isn't benefiting from this rebellion.

My steps quicken as I name each emotion until I'm speeding down the corridor. Outside the curved windows, the setting sun leaves a wide ribbon of orange and pink. The colors are beautiful, but I can't appreciate them. What does he want to see me for? Is it possible that he feels he owes me an explanation – or perhaps to express his remorse? He doesn't strike me as the type.

I round a bend in the wall and dead end at a pair of steel doors. They aren't automated. I barely save myself from a smashed nose by using my hands for a buffer as I collide with the steel.

One of the doors wrenches open and Haymitch stands there glowering at me through bloodshot eyes, alerted by the sound of impact.

His curly black hair lies matted to one side. His shirttails hang out of his trousers. I wonder if he'll ever take care of himself? It seemed like he really might clean up his act when Peeta put the three of them through boot camp before the Quell. He lost a little weight, ate better, quit drinking. Though I guess he still isn't – he's never drunk when he meets with me. Because of my aunt and some sort of obligation he thinks he has toward her remaining relatives.

Of which I'm the only one now.

"Well, get in here." After ushering me into the spacious room he settles himself in a high-backed chair around a long table. "Sit down before you fall down," he orders gruffly.

I obey, taking a seat directly across from him. The soft rays of the dying sun barely cast a glow through the windows. I don't mind. At the moment I prefer the darkness and its ability to conceal. My knees feel wobbly and I don't know what to say to him now that I've got a chance. We sit in silence for a few painful moments. For someone who lacks a filter, Haymitch seems remarkably tongue-tied as well.

"Where's Gale?" I echo Posy's question.

"Busy," he grunts and rubs his eyes. He winces when he touches the swollen skin. "He's the hero of the hour." Haymitch finishes with a sneer.

"Oh?" There are hundreds of ways that he'd be considered a hero, after what happened in Twelve and keeping us all alive in the woods. But, when it's clear that Haymitch won't elaborate, I ask, "Where did you get those?" The cuts on his face seem like a safe start. Scabs are something we have in common lately.

His eyes darken considerably and gaze at something over my shoulder like he'd rather not answer the question.

"Katniss," he says.

…

_Gale's POV_

"Catnip?"

I stand just inside the threshold of a large room. Two rows of beds face each other. Only one of them is occupied. A colorless lump covered with a sheet. Matted black hair.

So it's true.

No matter how many times I told myself that she lived, I wasn't prepared for the actual moment when I would see her. My hands and face feel like they're going numb and I realized that I'm not breathing. She's asleep, so I lean against the closed door and make myself inhale and exhale until my heart rate comes down and my fingers tingle.

On trembling legs I walk toward the bed, eager to see her face. I never thought I'd see it again. She's thin, cheeks hollow and bruised, sallow. An IV drip stands to the side, unused. A bandage peeks out from beneath the sheet and I remember one of the last few moments of the Quell before the Capitol cut the transmission. One of the other victor tributes, Johanna what's-her-name, cut into her arm and then ran off. I thought _that_ was the end of the road for Katniss and I remember cursing Peeta out for not being obstinate enough to ignore the others and follow after her and keep her safe.

I grip the edge of the bed, looking down on her while she sleeps. Thousands of other thoughts probably race through my brain. Memories, disappointment, relief to see her, fear for her health and sanity. Weighed down by the knowledge of my inadequacy to help her. Jealousy…betrayal…might as well throw those in too. The way Haymitch says it, I'm the only one she'll trust, but can I trust her? I swallow it down though in light of how she's been betrayed. I won't deny her an ally, despite everything.

As I stand by her side, wondering what I'm going to do, she opens her eyes and recognition lights them up. And then I know one thing for certain: I'm not going to beg her to understand Haymitch's point of view, or explain his motives, or think I can fix her by asking her to buck up and be the symbol everyone wants her to be. She doesn't work that way. She's going to do what is in her nature to do – I just need to remind her of what that is.

"Hey, Catnip," I say reverently, as if I were standing over her casket. Strands of limp, dirty hair cover her eyes. She blinks at them but doesn't try to brush them away. I do it for her – I guess that's how it's going to be for a while until she's back on her feet. Until she can help herself. Her skin feels dry and papery beneath my fingers, and looks so pale. Old. I run my thumb over her cheekbone, standing out prominently from her thin face. The last time I touched her, the night before the reaping, I told her it would be better if Peeta were easier to hate. I remember the press of her fingers, digging into my back as we clung to one another. Then she went inside her mansion. I walked home. And that was it. I didn't think I'd ever get another chance to do this.

I'm so caught up in it that her first words crash over me like a sheet of ice, foisting me back into reality. No _it's you _or _I've missed you_. No sign of relief. Not even my name. Just recognition. Her first thought isn't for me. I'm just a catalyst to help her remember. I knew this coming in, but I'm not prepared for the way my chest feels like it's tearing up.

"Prim?" she gasps.

Prim. I keep my voice steady despite the disappointment constricting my throat. "She's alive. So is your mother," I say. "I got them out in time."

It only takes a second for her face to express just how unfortunate those last words are. Too much is implied, yet not enough. Her chest rises and falls in shallow spurts and she asks the one question I'm afraid to answer, because I don't know what she'll do.

"They're not in Twelve?"

The truth. Haymitch told me to tell her the truth…and not to let her bludgeon herself into a vegetable.

"After the Games, they sent in planes. Dropped firebombs." I can feel the heat of it on my face again, saying it out loud. I see the people lying in the square where they were gunned down and the ones fried from trying to climb the fence. The smoke. The screams. Madge's face when she realized we were leaving her parents behind to die. The things I said to her. How do I sum all that up? How do I tell Katniss without making her crazy? She looks at me, waiting for me to continue, and I realize that the nightmare is mine, not hers. So all I say is, "Well, you know what happened to the Hob."

That's image enough. Maybe too much. Her shoulders curl inward like she's trying to rise from the bed or die, and can't do either. Her lips part in horror. "They're not in District Twelve?" she repeats, eyes wild. They start to close as if she can shut out the truth.

She can't. Denying the truth won't save her from going crazy. She has to face it; I have to help her.

"Katniss," I murmur.

"Don't," she pleads, raising her hand protectively, blocking me out. I lose some of my resolve from the pitiful notes in her voice. I don't want to be the one to do this. But who else will? Haymitch? What is she to him? It has to be me.

I catch her hand, warding off her denial, connecting us as I deliver the deathblow.

"Katniss, there is no District 12."

Her face crumbles.

…

_Madge's POV_

The sound of Katniss's name from Haymitch's mouth startles me like a gun going off. "But it looks too fresh to have come from Katniss," I stammer. "She went into the arena weeks ago."

Haymitch glares at me. "She's alive and capable of inflicting damage."

My heart stops. I shake my head, trying to clear it out, wondering if I heard right. "Alive?"

He draws a line across the tabletop with the side of his thumb. "For now."

"But…" Several emotions hijack me at once: relief, joy, surprise, anxiety. I try to quell them because how could Haymitch be telling me the truth? I stare down at my hands. My nails are chipped and dirty; calluses and scabs make my hands look nearly unrecognizable from the manicured pianist hands I was used to back home. I pick at one of the scabs and it hurts. So, not dreaming, I guess. I look up to find Haymitch studying me through hooded eyes. I lean toward him, the edge of the table biting into my stomach. "How is that possible after what I saw – after what happened back home?" A wave my hand in the air in an arc. _"How is any of this possible?" _

Haymitch holds up a scarred hand to silence me. "Let me get a word in edgewise and I'll tell you."

I close my mouth and sit back in the chair, indicating that I'm ready to listen. He starts talking, telling me some things I already know – about the rebel network. But he broadens the scope beyond our district. He tells me about the victors who acted as contacts in the other districts, as well as the men and women working undercover in the Capitol – and the epicenter: District Thirteen.

I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into my seat, weighed down by the magnitude of the information, everything he couldn't tell me before.

My role in all this – reading newspapers. Ha! Child's play. In fact, it's insulting, given the scope of the rebels' operations.

"The rebellion has gained considerable strength. We have a base of operations, growing supplies. We lacked support in the districts and contacts in the Capitol. The latter we gained, but we still needed something to rally the people and unify them, especially with how hard the Capitol works to shut down all communication between districts. We got that by surprise one year ago when some girl received a mockingjay pin." He jabs a finger at me. "Your aunt's pin."

I blink. "You recognized it?"

Haymitch's lips curl. "I picked it off of her jumpsuit myself and brought it home for your family." He says it like he had to step in a bear trap first.

"My mother never told me that."

Haymitch shrugs, as though he guessed as much. My father described my aunt's Games once; for some reason clips of it are rarely shown on TV. It sounded like Haymitch sort of cared when my aunt died. And, well, I know that he's always kept an eye on us, but not for our sake. I wonder how my mother and grandparents received him when he returned. Mother never explained that, either. Were they spiteful? Angry? Nobody would chastise them for not wanting to see the boy who made it home instead of their daughter. But I bet that was lonely for Haymitch. The few people who might understand what he's going through were also the last people who wanted him around. I'm not really sure how other tributes' families behave toward victors normally, since we've only had Haymitch, Katniss and Peeta in my lifetime. And, well, Katniss and Peeta came home together, so no spite there.

I choke on that thought. Yes, some spite on Mrs. Everdeen's part. Not toward a victor, but toward the children who never went to the Games in the first place. Her presence felt like a shadow hanging over my head when we were in the wilderness. If that's what it felt like for Haymitch, I wish the Donners had been less typical.

"Why did you give Katniss the pin?" he asks, breaking my reverie.

I exhale slowly, remembering it how it all started. "My mother gave it to me in March when I turned twelve. For my first reaping." It was a beautiful gift, but receiving it felt like a death sentence when my mother explained that it belonged to Aunt Maysilee. I hid it until the reaping day in June. My dad asked why I wasn't wearing it. I told him the truth, about how I despised it, as though I'd have to share the same fate as my aunt. It wasn't until he explained the larger significance of the mockingjay and the rebellion that I felt any attachment to the broach – and maybe a little proud of it. "I wore that pin to every reaping because I knew what it meant – and not just to my family. It made me feel like I could defy the Capitol, even if the gesture was very small." I look Haymitch in the eyes. "I intended to wear it to the Games myself if Effie Trinket pulled my name." Haymitch flinches. "I hoped the pin would remind others."

"Remind others?" He actually laughs, hard, forgetting whatever I said that made him flinch. "You wouldn't have made it two steps toward the Cornucopia. What's to remember?"

His words sting more than I'd care to admit. I bristle against how little he thinks of my capabilities, which are admittedly few, but not to be overlooked. "I made it out of Twelve alive, didn't I?" I snap. I made it out of Twelve, managed not to starve, escaped from a sexual deviant _twice_.

Haymitch grunts. "So you did. And your _little_ _gesture_ incited a nation-wide rebellion in a fraction of the time it would have taken the victors to spread the word." Despite how it sounds, I don't think Haymitch meant it as a compliment. "We're ready, but not _that_ ready," he admits. "This last year has been a real pip, what with some of the more trigger-happy districts threatening to overturn all of our efforts. Of course the Capitol steps in. Executions all over the place. Men like Romulus Thread making work harder for us." Haymitch stops to consider something, then smirks. "'Course, we just made his job a hell of a lot more fun for him."

"I didn't—"

"Anyway, if the pin is _your_ little gesture," he repeats, cutting me off. I'm beginning to regret using that phrase. He leans forward on both his elbows. "Why give it to Katniss? To make your friend a billboard for the rebellion, too?"

I flinch at the accusation. "No. I gave it to Katniss in case one of your contacts in the Capitol saw it. They'd look out for her, maybe sponsor her, too. I don't know. I guess it was a long shot."

Haymitch rubs his jaw, looking tired. "You probably had no clue that it would create such a hullabaloo."

"How could I?" I demand, sitting up straight. "You didn't tell me anything!"

"Darn right," he snorts, as though he wouldn't trust me for the world.

I fist the table, tired of him mocking me. "Why not? You trusted Darius and me to sneak around for you. Why not trust us with the rest of what you knew?" Darius's words come hurtling back to me, _Haymitch is a smart man. He survived this long and he's not about to lose the game._ "He trusted _you_."

Haymitch eyes me angrily. "And expect a little girl like you not to fold if the Capitol got its hands you? I don't think so."

"I wouldn't," I insist.

"No? You don't think if some guys in white jackets stood over you with a pair of surgical shears ready to cut your tongue out, that you wouldn't feel the slightest temptation to give in?"

I clench my jaw, deigning no reply.

"What if it they had your family? Your mother? Would that loosen your tongue?" He sits back, watching me grimace. "You should thank me for not putting you in a position where you'd be worth anything to them. There are others, our friends, who aren't that fortunate right now. I'm sure they'd rather be tucked away in some backward district reading the morning paper."

I glare at Haymitch, loathing him more than I've ever loathed anyone who wasn't a Peacekeeper or government official. I'm tempted to scratch his other eye, which reminds me of _my _question.

I collapse back into my chair and rub my eyes, which feel dry from the air in the hovercraft. "So how is Katniss alive?" I ask again. "After what I saw on television it doesn't make sense." And I cannot bear to get my hopes up.

Haymitch's voice takes on a bland, dispassionate tone. "Everything converged together after the 74th Games: our strength, or symbol, we now needed to pinpoint the most auspicious moment to strike."

"And?" I ask, wondering how this is connected to my question.

"And the Capitol forced our hand with the Quarter Quell," he answers. "Snow's plot to off their most potent victor turned into our opportune moment. Katniss is alive because we need her. She's the face of this rebellion whether she likes it or not – thanks, in part, to you."

"Me?" I gasp, horrified by the idea, having seen the fall-out.

"Partially," he says to placate me. "Katniss had the skills and the mindset to become a victor. You just provided the label."

I feel sick…I never meant for anything like this to happen. It was only a gift, a half-baked hope that she'd have a little help.

"So we put a plan in place to rescue the victors as soon as the Quell was announced," Haymitch continues. "Breaking into the arena would save the Mockingjay, and also serve as a trigger for the rebels waiting in the districts."

"The rebels? What rebels?" I snap, gripping the edge of the table to keep myself from launching across it. "Who in Twelve knew this was going to happen? _I_ didn't and I worked for you. My father didn't. I didn't see any miners looking more prepared than anyone else, except Gale, and he didn't know a thing about a rebellion. He was going to skip town with his family because Katniss warned him about Snow's hit list. What about the rest of us who didn't know that Panem was plunging into a war? Our friends and neighbors didn't know they'd need to defend themselves against the Capitol's retaliation!" I gulp air, then moan, "Why didn't we get a warning, Haymitch? Was that fair?"

Haymitch looks sorry – sorrier than I've ever seen him, but his answer is so typical. His eyebrows, a few grey hairs peppering them, knit together defiantly. "Do you really think they were going to let a phone call through to a condemned district?" he says. "Don't think we didn't try, kid."

We both sit deep in our chairs, weighed down by everything we've just talked about and everything else that's still left to be said.

Haymitch runs fingers through his flattened hair, not looking at me. "Your parents?"

I shake my head, not caring if he notices or not. I can't seem to form a simple _no_ with my lips, let alone _they're dead_.

"You'll be taken care of," he promises. "You won't have to worry about that."

Great.

"For what?" I ask quietly. "My aunt's sake?"

He purses his lips. I take it as affirmation.

Then something occurs to me and the queasy feeling in my stomach doubles. "You keep saying that you had to keep Katniss alive. You mean Katniss _and_ Peeta, right?"

A caged look drifts over Haymitch's features. "No."

No? "Where is Peeta? Surely if you have Katniss…"

"We couldn't get to Peeta in time," he says deadpan, as though he's said it a hundred times already.

I can barely form the words. "He's dead?"

"I hope not."

"But…" It doesn't seem possible to me, that Peeta wouldn't be here. Not if Katniss is here. The two of them. And the thought of him gone? I remember the last time I saw him before the Quell reaping, he shook my hand and thanked me for helping them out with the newspapers. His skin felt warm and dry, and he his hold on my hand wasn't too soft or too hard. It was perfect.

"We're working on it, Madge," Haymitch growls. I realize that talking about Peeta has struck a nerve. "That's all I can tell you."

"Where's Katniss?" I ask. She's probably a mess without Peeta.

"With Gale right now."

I blanch. _He's the hero of the hour_. Of course…

Haymitch quirks an eyebrow, scrutinizing me in a way that makes me squirm. "What?"

I shake my head, but on the inside I feel something akin to panic. After the way Gale qualified his feelings in the woods and by the river, I am terribly aware of just how fragile our relationship is…or has just become.

_Katniss is a part of me. I can't just switch that off. …I don't know if I can let her go completely – maybe I don't have to._

He still has feelings for Katniss and he's with her right now. And Peeta's out of the picture…possibly indefinitely. How could I possibly compete with his first love? I feel myself edging off my seat to make a beeline for the door. I just need to see him.

"Madge?"

I blink at Haymitch, not realizing that he's been trying to talk to me. "What?"

"How did you get out of the district, anyway?" he asks knowingly. When I don't answer, he barks, "Well?"

"Gale," I reluctantly reply.

"Huh." He smirks. "Nice of him to return the favor, after all the effort you went to in order to preserve him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I sniff.

"I think you do." He chuckles deep in his throat like he amused by the silly young people around him. "How many other mercy runs were there after the whippings started?"

None. I look away from Haymitch as my cheeks burn.

"Mr. Hawthorne interested you more than the others?" he muses. It sounds like an accusation. "Must've been the strawberries."

"That's unfair, Haymitch. Besides, I gave Mrs. Everdeen six vials of morphling. More than enough for any others."

"Look, you aren't the first merchant girl to fall for a man from the Seam, Madge. You can admit that you've got it bad for that crabby collier."

"Leave me alone, Haymitch," I hiss. He is the last person on earth I want to confide in, especially something this personal and tenuous.

I get up to leave, but he stops me. "One more thing, sweetheart. It's better just to get it all out. I know you're angry that I didn't tell you more about the rebellion. I'm sorry I couldn't better prepare you for what was to come. But let me tell you, it's better that way. We found Darius, or rather, they left Darius for us to find."

I collapse into the chair. _"Darius?" _

"For merely stepping in to help your miner, they turned him into an Avox. Imagine what they would have done if they knew I used him as a tool to spy on Cray, or that he was one of the many hands of the rebellion," he says. "Don't think I didn't have your best interest in mind."

_An Avox?_ My eyes squeeze shut as the realization sweeps over me and I barely hear the rest of what Haymitch has to say. The material point is that with my desire to save lives, I've turned my friends into slaves and fugitives. Somewhere on this hovercraft, Gale is being a hero. I couldn't be less of one.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading! _

_Ceylon, thanks for beta and helpful crit! Geeky, thanks for helping me with Haymitch. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta!

* * *

_

**Chapter Three**

_Gale's POV

* * *

_

I spent the night in the medical wing with Katniss after she crumbled. The news about Twelve hit her hard; the last straw, I guess. She just sort of fell asleep somewhere between sobs. When she seemed unlikely to wake up, I snuck out of the room and found a nurse to help cut me out of the stupid sling. I didn't want Katniss to wake up alone after what she's been through, so I fell asleep in a chair I pulled next to her, forgoing my first opportunity to sleep in a real bed in weeks. A mistake. Sometimes I woke up with my forehead pressed against her mattress or nearly falling off my seat. A stubborn crick forming in my neck.

The door banging against the wall and a muffled apology tears away the last fragile threads of sleep I tried clinging to throughout the night. My brain buzzes like so many bees and my bones have that weightless, floating feeling that comes with exhaustion. I refrain from cursing at the plump woman waddling over to Katniss's bed because she's carrying a tray of food. I can smell it – something warm and sweet. My dad used to say, _Never bite the hand that feeds you_. It's an okay principle, unless the one that feeds you also uses the other hand to slap you down. Capitol style.

The attendant jostles Katniss's shoulder with a fluffy hand and I almost warn her about Katniss's reflexes, but nothing happens. I expected her hunter instincts to snap her into alertness, like they used to when I woke her up from naps in the woods. I learned to keep my distance. But Katniss barely lifts her head to scan the room. She looks at me through bleary eyes like she'd forgotten I'd come or maybe she'd dreamed me and feels surprised to find that I'm real. Her attention turns to find the culprit who disturbed her.

Her eyes form into angry grey slits as she eyes the attendant. "What is that?" she demands, pointing at the tray. The attendant backs up a step, looking down nervously, like she isn't quite sure.

"I don't want it," Katniss croaks.

Haymitch said she refused to eat, but I'm still shocked when she does. It's out of character, not to mention wrong. "Food smells good," I muse, hoping to tempt her. I lift the lid off the plate to see what's for breakfast. Some strange square bread with grid-like indentations with butter and syrup melting between them. It's just one piece. I guess they didn't figure that I'd be here still. I lift an eyebrow at Katniss. "Looks good. You sure you don't want any?"

"I told you before; I don't want anything," she growls, ignoring me.

The woman turns her pleading eyes on me for help. I shrug, useless. "The nurse was told that she'd changed her mind," she stammers to me, as though Katniss couldn't here. "We thought…"

Haymitch thought I'd have her on her feet by now. Right as rain by morning. Deadlines around here are pretty killer. I rub the back of my neck, wondering how many nights I'll have to sleep in a rickety chair.

"Send it away," Katniss command like a queen with sandpaper down her throat.

"She threw a tray before they put her on feeding tubes," the attendant explains to me. She's holding the tray up by her collar bone like she's trying to keep it out of Katniss's reach.

I feel a stab of anger at her continued refusal to eat. Not that it takes much to set me off, but wasting is a surefire way to get my dander up. _Must be nice to be in a position to refuse food_, I think irritably. Or to just give up and not care about anything, which is why I think she's acting this way. I mean, what, she made it this far just to waste away in a hospital bed wearing a dress that gapes open in the back?

My anger doubles when it hits me who taught her all this mooning and moaning garbage. Peeta _I-can't-live-without-you _Mellark_. _I bet he could miss a meal and never notice, like all the other fat merchant brats—I bite my tongue, thinking of Madge. I guess I haven't fully repented.

"I'll throw it again," Katniss threatens the poor woman, whose chin wobbles under her shocked expression.

"You're going to waste good food?" My face twists with sarcasm. "You haven't spent enough of your life starving? Because I have." I take the tray from the woman and thank her, which goes to show how odd this new dynamic is between Katniss and myself – I'm not usually the polite one. "Somebody will eat it."

The attendant eagerly turns to leave.

"Hold on," I call to her. "What is this, anyway?"

She turns to give me a confused look and I hold up the tray. "Waffles, of course."

I withhold a snort and say, "Of course. Thanks." When she leaves, I find a place to set the tray and cut the waffle in half. I can feel her eyes on my back. "We'll split," I say over my shoulder.

"I'm not eating that, Gale."

"If you're worried about it going to your hips, forget it," I tell her when I've turned around. "You look and smell like a greasy bag of bones left outside of Rooba's butcher shop. So first you're going to eat."

Her face sets into a silent snarl, but I've seen worse and keep going.

"Hey, maybe you don't like waffles?" I shrug, as though that's the real problem. "Fine. I'll find you something else. Then you're going to shower. You're going to sit up in a chair. We'll talk."

Katniss hisses through clenched teeth, "Gale, I'm not…"

My hand flies in the air, like I can swat away the aggravation welling up inside. I return her look, scowl for scowl. "What do you think this is, Katniss?"

"Huh?" she says, thrown off from what she wanted to say.

I cross my arms and glower down at her. "Who are you?" I ask. "Only a few years ago, you were a kid picking through Mrs. Mellark's garbage cans."

"You have no idea what I've been through in the last few weeks, Gale," Katniss hisses. "And you come in here telling me that my home is gone and expect me to…to…" She waves at the food.

"So, refusing food, lying around all day…that's going to help the district?" I grouse. "Twelve is gone. Forget it. Those of us who survived are trying to get on with our lives. And folks still out in the woods would _kill_ for a meal."

I can't help comparing Madge to Katniss right now. We found her dirty and half-starved, but fighting to live. She lost everything: parents, friends, her home. Her parents aren't going to show up on a hovercraft or welcome her to home ever again. As far as I can see, Madge doesn't have as much of an incentive to hold onto life as Katniss, but she's going to keep trying. Katniss, at least, has her mother and sister, most of her friends. She knows where her next meal could come from, if only she'd eat it. They'd give her clothes if she got out of bed. She could bust out of here and survive on her own if she wanted to. A few months ago I'd have laughed if someone suggested that I'd admire the Mayor's daughter more than my best friend, but I do.

"It's not just that," Katniss protests. I can tell by the way she's avoiding my eyes exactly what else it's about. Her voice sinks into a ragged whisper. "Peeta should be here. Not me – that was the _plan_."

"Wasting away won't help Peeta out, wherever he is," I snipe through gritted teeth, hating what she's turned into since she met him. "But I'm sure he'd be touched, Katniss." Not if I know anything about that kid. It's something we both have in common. He didn't try to keep her alive so she could turn into…Mrs. E.

"Shut up, Gale," Katniss snarls. "You're just angry because…because…" She catches herself before throwing that old accusation in my face.

"Fine," I snap. "Got it."

She deflates before my eyes, looking ashamed. Her hair falls in dirty strings over her face as she hangs her head.

I turn my back on her again, battling the desire to set her straight on _that_ score. If I'm jealous of Mellark, it's not because Katniss loves him and not me. It's because without him, Katniss is a shadow of the girl I once knew. I'm not in love with her – and I could tell her that. I could tell her about Madge. But I don't. Right now it would seem like I'm rubbing it in her face. I'm angry enough. I decide to focus on the food and give us both a break. The mouthful of waffle makes me moan out loud. Oh my god, that's good. Waffles…how did we not have these in Twelve? I know the answer, of course. We could never make something like this with the coarse tesserae grain. I shovel in my half in less than a minute.

I look at Katniss over my shoulder. She's been watching. "Finish it," she mumbles.

I shrug. I'll try the food thing again with her at lunchtime, hopefully with something less tasty. Besides, I doubt I've been using the right tack with Katniss anyway. It figures. I thought she died and the first chance I get to see her, we fight. With the silence hanging around us like a fog, I know that I've let my anger get the best of me. I just don't know what else to do with Katniss. I'm not an empath like Prim.

That seems to be the answer. The sooner I get out of here and Katniss sees her family, things will probably turn up. I can tell Katniss what her responsibilities are, but she needs to reclaim them for herself.

I thumb away stray syrup from the corner of my mouth and take a seat again by her bed. "Prim is on this ship."

"Where is she?" Katniss murmurs, looking up at me through her veil of hair.

I shrug again. "No idea. Haymitch hijacked me and sent everyone else to get some sleep."

"I need to see her and my mother," Katniss says to her lap.

She doesn't see me grimace. "You want them to see you like this?"

"Like what?" she asks blandly, looking up.

"Like a skeleton pretending to be Katniss but so far as I can tell, doesn't act like her one bit." She flinches, but I continue. "When did you start giving up?" I lower my voice, wondering if this question will earn me some facial marks like Haymitch's. "When did you turn into your mother?"

Katniss's mouth drops, then forms a question, _mother?_ She looks puzzled and appalled.

"Look," I say as gently as possible, gesturing toward the blankets draped over her legs. "Haymitch puts up with this because he feels guilty about Peeta. I can't. I have a family of five to think about. Plus you and your family if you don't snap out of this. I'll help you as much as I can, but you have to try to help yourself."

I'm either screwing this up or getting through to her. I still don't know. I'm not inclined toward pandering and soft-spoken words. I can do it. But it's not my strength. _Unlike Peeta_, I grudgingly admit. The old Katniss could hold up under blunt speech – preferred it, even. I don't know if she can anymore, and I resent Peeta for it.

"Katniss?" I ask when she doesn't respond.

She closes her eyes and slumps into the headboard, shutting me out like I'm Haymitch or one of her nurses. "Where is my sister?" she whispers, repeating herself. "I need to see her."

Last night it discouraged me when she asked for Prim straight away. That feeling isn't gone, but I'm smart enough to recognize that this is as normal as we're going to get from Katniss for now – the old Katniss who made it her priority to keep her sister alive.

I reach out and squeeze her limp hand. "I'll find out."

She doesn't acknowledge me and I take that like a dismissal. The chair creaks when I stand to make my way to the door. Her eyes fly open and she sits up.

"Wait!" she calls. "You're going?"

My face slackens in surprise at the sudden, desperate change of tone. Conversations with Katniss are starting to feel like riding down the pit in a coal cart. All rocks and no shocks.

"Uh. Yeah," I manage to say.

Katniss holds out her hand for me to take. "Are you coming back?"

My heart lifts for a second. I can't help it – wanting her to want me to stay.

"Yes. I promise," I tell her. "I'll bring you something to eat."

She scowls. Well, at least she wasn't angry with me for about two seconds. It's a start.

I slip out the door and startle when I see someone out of the corner of my eye.

Haymitch stands to the left of the door like a grey rain cloud waiting to ruin someone's day. It figures that it would be me. "Well?" he grunts.

I stride blindly down the hall and push through the double doors of the medical ward and into the sunlight streaming through the plate glass windows; he keeps up with no trouble. "Whatever it is you want her for, she's not ready, Haymitch. Come back in a few years."

"We don't have a few years," he grouses.

"Then you better get her _boyfriend_ back," I snipe. An easy fix, right? He should have known he picked the wrong guy for the job.

Haymitch stops while I surge on ahead. "Is she done beating her brains out, at least?"

I turn around to face him. "She wants to see her family, if that's what you mean."

"That'll do then," he relents with ill humor. "You better get some shut-eye. We'll be underground before nightfall."

"Underground?" I ask.

"_The_ Underground. Where the survivors of District Thirteen fled seventy-five years ago. The rebel base." Haymitch smirks as he turns back down the corridor, and calls over his shoulder. "You'll feel right at home down there."

"Huh. Right," I mutter. "Jerk."

_Underground._ Well, that explains how they managed to survive in a fallout zone. I walk the length of the corridor, thinking about how little enthusiasm I feel for living below the crust – seeing as how I've just had a three week reprieve – before I realize that I don't know where I'm supposed to find my family or who to ask. I probably could have asked Haymitch before I snarled at him. I turn around thinking I'll go back the way I came and ask somebody who looks official –

"Oof!"

"Sorry."

Or I could bump into Bristel. It takes me a second to recognize him, all shaven and clean. Cleaner than he ever looked in Twelve. And it looks like someday gave him a haircut. I didn't know he had curly hair. Maybe all that oil and coal dust slicked the strands out straight.

I must resemble a hobo next to him.

"Hey," he says somberly. "Rooms are on the lower deck. Your folks are in number twenty-five."

"Thanks," I say. "What are you up to?"

He shrugs and rubs his jaw self-consciously. "Just seeing who else they might have picked up along the way, anyone we knew."

As soon as I see his face, I know who he's looking for, and that his search wasn't fruitful. "Nothing?" I ask, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

Bristel shakes his head slowly. "The purser hasn't got anyone named Thom in the manifest. Couldn't even dig up a rumor of him."

"I'm sorry." And I am. For Bristel. For Thom. I hope maybe there's been a mistake or that maybe my other crewmate just hasn't been found yet. I never told Bristel that I ran into Thom in the Seam or how he tried to drag me with him. At that point I wanted nothing more than to let him. But while he made for the Meadow with his gran on his back, I had to go collect Madge. It was a bitter moment.

"Yeah," he shrugs again. I've never seen Bristel down like this. Even after the firebombing, his sense of humor remained unflappable. But then, burned out houses are not like lost friends. I know that. "I'm going to find some food," he says. "See you around."

"Sure." I don't really know what else to say to him, so I watch Bristel shuffle down the hall. Once he's out of sight, it takes great effort to drag my tired feet toward a lift that will carry me down to my family's quarters. Nobody else joins me for the ride down and I find myself staring off into space and thinking. I wonder who else we won't ever see again. Greasy Sae and her scads of grandkids; Ripper; even the Goat Man. I didn't really think about it much in the wilderness. We had other pressings worries at the time. For some reason the knowledge that we'll never go home, that things won't be the same again, seems more final when Bristel's off searching records and coming up empty-handed. I guess I prefer the unknown. It leaves room to hope.

I'm startled with a dingy noise announces the floor and the doors slide open. I step out into the floor reserved for passenger cabins. It feels more cramped down here. No windows line the corridor of this floor. The walls are a solid, grayish-white color with light fixtures mounted at regular intervals. The hall curves on either side of me, since each deck is round. I take a second to observe the progression of the numbered doors and then take a left toward twenty-five. I knock on the door and it hisses open. I poke my head in. Mom looks up and smiles at me. "Everything okay?" I ask.

"We're fine," she says. "Rory took Vick and Posy to explore."

"Or cause trouble," I grumble stepping fully into what appears to be a suite. "Nice place."

It's not a large room, but its bigger than our house in the Seam, and filled with furniture. Sofas. Coffee table. Sorta posh compared to what we're used to. Nobody's sitting on empty dynamite crates, for example, or using a slab of wood balanced on an oil drum as a table.

"There are extra cots in the bedroom. You don't look like you've slept very much."

"Not really," I admit.

"Gale?" Mom says, her brows knit together. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I sit on a shallow sofa. My knees stick up. I study them through the holes in the corduroy. "I think I did."

"Haymitch?"

"He took me to Katniss."

Mom's features spread in surprise. "Oh."

I find it strange that they haven't told my family anything. Why the secrecy? Unless Katniss is in danger of some kind and Haymitch wants to keep her location private?

Watching Mom watch me, the shock of it all comes crashing down. I realize I've been on autopilot ever since the hovercraft showed up in the meadow. And the things I thought were true are coming undone. I cradle my head in my hands as I become sensible to the pounding between my temples. The sound of rushing blood fills my ears. Now that I've seen her alive, why is it that I feel my chest tearing open like it did the night I thought she died?

"Gale, are you all right?" Mom squeezes my shoulder.

"No." I shake my head, though I'm still clutching on to it, doubled over with my elbows on my knees. I screw my eyes shut to block in the moisture forming. I told Haymitch I don't cry. God, I've forgotten what this feels like, this tight pressure squeezing my chest. It's been gone for so long I'm not prepared for the weight of it. Not since the day by the river when I spilled everything to Madge.

Madge.

The pressure lifts for a fleeting moment, then returns with extra force. The two of them, Katniss and Madge, do not sit well together in my head.

I feel the couch cushions shift as my mother sits next to me, her arm wraps around my shoulders. "What is it, baby?"

Baby? Yeah, that's me. I'm as tough as…as…a daisy. I try to think of a way to sum it all up, but the only thing that comes to mind is this: "People just don't come back from the dead."

A ghost of a smile threads over Mom's face. "She never was."

"I buried her, Mom. In my heart, I finally let her go. I don't know when – hell, I didn't even know I _had_ until just now. Somewhere between Twelve and Thirteen, I gave her up and now she's back." I knead my palms into my eyeballs. The pressure feels good.

"Isn't that good news?"

I shake my head. "She's different, Mom. It's like going in reverse, and I'm mourning her all over again."

"You'll find your feet again," she says consolingly. "And Madge will help."

"How will Madge help?" I ask, trying to imagine practical ways she could add to the situation.

My mom isn't thinking practically. "Isn't it obvious, Gale? You said you gave Katniss up somewhere between Twelve and Thirteen. Well, somewhere between Twelve and Thirteen, you found Madge. Katniss is alive. She's your friend – she'll always be your friend. But you love Madge."

I choke on my own spit as I inhale sharply. _Love?_ I'm attracted to Madge; I care about her. I'd kill Liquor a hundred times over for trying to hurt her…love? I loved Katniss, but I knew her for over four years. Something about Madge makes me want to protect her, not just now, but in the long run. But to call what I have with Madge love is too hasty.

Isn't it?

We're not in the middle of the wilderness anymore. Madge has options now. So do I. The cabin in the woods backup plan is a thing of the past. We'll never have to consider it. Can I even hold her to anything she said about her feelings for me? A new alternative unfolded this morning when the rebels found us. What is our place within this new world? It changes things. I feel so conflicted my temples throb with fresh gusto.

I wonder. This Katniss dynamic – everything is shifting and I don't know what my place is with her or with anyone. Options. Katniss and I – no. Oddly, the knowledge has lost its sting.

Madge and I – we'll see.

Madge and somebody else…say that idiot pilot who flirted with her? or somebody else from the Underground?

The physical reaction is so immediate I'm not prepared for the flash of white hot possessiveness. Hell no. Maybe I'm not fully in love with her yet, but… Another thought douses my self-centered want for her like a bucket of ice water. Madge may not want to be tied down by past feelings in light of the fact that everything else about us is changing. What she said in the woods is part of another life, a chapter that's over.

My organs feel like they're shriveling as this thought grows, and I know I have to do the right thing by her. I have to give her the option of changing her mind. I made the mistake of assuming that Katniss and I would be together, because it seems so natural that we would. But things changed. That life, that possibility dissolved. That could happen again – maybe it already is – and I need to…let her go if that's what she wants.

The shrinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realize, is the fear that Madge will take me up on this. It wouldn't be the first time a girl I cared about left me behind.

Shaking off Mom's arm, I get to my feet, hoping to quell the feeling of unease creeping over me. For the first time, I wish we hadn't stepped aboard the Maysilee or Cole. The possibilities are killing my head.

"Madge is next door." She points to the wall on my left. "She waited for you last night, but I sent her to bed. Poor thing looked a little green."

I look to Mom, unable to make up my groggy mind about what to do next. I told Katniss I'd come back. I should check on Madge. I should probably…

"Gale, you're dead on your feet. We haven't seen you since yesterday. Katniss can wait until you've slept and had something to eat." Then she says pointedly, "I'm sure Mrs. Everdeen and Prim would like to have her to themselves for a little while, too."

I frown at the suggestion that I hog Katniss's time. Haymitch set me up to it last night. Not me.

"Are you hungry?" Mom asks, changing the subject.

"Probably," I mumble.

She laughs. "If you're too tired to answer that question definitely, then you must be _exhausted_. Get some sleep."

I answer by walking past her into the bedroom. I throw myself down on the nearest cot, it smells like Rory – which I'd know from having to share a mattress with him for almost a dozen years, and letting the darkness pull me under.

* * *

**TBC**

**AN**: Thom and Bristel belong to Suzanne Collins. They both carried Gale's makeshift stretcher to the Everdeen house after the whipping. They were his crewmates in the mines. They relayed the story of Gale's capture and conviction by Thread, as well as how many strokes Gale received and Darius's attempt at intervention. Haymitch paid them both for their efforts and sent them home.

_Thanks so much for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Shameless Plug: I am helping to judge entries for Countdown to Mockingjay, hosted by KenoshaChick. If you have a fic (any length) reflecting post-CF material, please consider entering the contest! More info here: **http:/sites**(dot)**google**(dot)**com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

AN: Also, Ceylon205 is out of town, so this chapter is unbeta'd, at the moment. Apologies for remaining typos and mistakes.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_

_Relief settles into my bones. I'm home! I don't know how I got here, but this is certainly the square in Twelve. Mr. Mellark's bakery stands next to the sweet shop my family used to own. The Justice Building leans over the market like a bird of prey. And there's the whipping post. _

_The details are right except for one. I'm alone, even though the sun has barely begun to set. Where are all the people?_

"_Hello!" I call. My voice echoes through the empty space. _

_Then slowly, the bakery door creaks open. A familiar, balding man steps out from under the faded awning. Patches of flour cover his apron and I can see the scars on his arms from years of burning himself on the ovens. _

"_Mr. Mellark?" I ask. He nods. "What are we doing here?" _

"_We're waiting for the others," he says as he settles onto a bench outside his store. _

_A young woman about my age leaves the sweet shop. She's an exact copy of myself, even down to the drab school uniform. Aunt Maysilee, I realize with a shock. She smiles and sits next to the baker. "Gram, it's been a long time." _

"_Hello, Maysilee," he says. "Meet your niece. Madge Undersee." _

"_Marigold married Henry?" She laughs for some reason I'll probably never find out. "And you're their little girl?" It's odd for her to call me a little girl, since I've lived a year longer than she did. I don't correct her, though. _

_To my surprise, Mrs. Everdeen steps out of an old, abandoned storefront nobody's owned in years. The apothecary. She doesn't look at me, but everything about her posture shows that she's aware of my presence. She sits on another bench far from everyone. Mr. Mellark watches her with sad eyes. _

_Lastly, I hear clacking of metal against the cobbles and Peeta hobbles on a pair of crutches down the road leading to the Victor's Village. One of the legs of his trousers is pinned up. We stare at each other in surprise, then he take in the rest of our companions. Their presence together must mean something to him because he doesn't look startled to see them. _

_He shuffles over to me and leans on one crutch while he digs in his pocket. "Sorry, Madge," he says, handing me a pearl. "I tried my best." _

_Nobody says it, but the truth settles on me when the pearl drops into my palm. Watch out for the Seam folk. They'll break your heart at every turn. Everyone in the square can attest to that. I realize that this is what pieces us all together._

_I feel my heart tearing and the pressure of the pity in their faces as they watch me, wondering if I understand why we're all here. Unable to stand it, I run for home. The way is short and I cut through the back garden. Hanna isn't in the kitchen when I make my way to the staircase, nor do I hear the creak of my father pacing in his office. _

_I don't question the emptiness. I suppose I knew this would happen. My bedroom door stands open and I collapse on my bed. The pearl stands out against the blue covers where it falls from my hand. Peeta's words swirl around in my head. "Sorry, Madge. I tried my best." _

Try harder_, I silently urge him. _Please.

…

I hear a man's voice which strikes me as wrong. Dad will kill me for letting a guy in my room – but I didn't invite anyone…

Fingers on my arm.

I roll over, looking through the dim light coming in from the hall. Someone in mottled clothes bends over me. His fingers reach for my face. I scream and strike at him with my fists. I feel the slap as it connects with flesh. Hear a yawl. Then strong hands capture my wrists.

"It's me, Madge." The lamp on the nightstand switches on, blinding me for a moment.

"Gale?" I ask as the spots clear. Without the lamp, the only light in the room comes from the bathroom. I left the door cracked open for a nightlight when I lied down for a nap in this small and windowless cabin.

He looks different today, older. He got that stupid splint off and his upper lip has that "just shaved" look. I'm a little disappointed, if I am honest with myself. Gale looks good with facial hair – extra good – he's handsome no matter what.

Gale lets go of my wrists to rub the tender skin under his eye. "Every time." He shakes his head. "You're jumpy."

I sit up, pulling the blanket with me and huddle against the headboard. "Why didn't you knock first? You scared me to death."

"I did knock," he mutters, taking a seat at my feet. "You were asleep."

My hair probably looks like a badger nested in it and I try to discretely pat it down. "I've been asleep since after breakfast. What time is it?"

He whistles low. "It's almost dinnertime. Are you feeling okay?"

"I guess the last few weeks have caught up with me. It's nice to sleep on a mattress again." I yawn and look down at my knees. "Before you woke me up, I thought I was at home."

Home_. Sorry, Madge. I did my best._ Peeta's resignation and the warning start to choke me, as the fears from yesterday come flooding back. I can't stop what's already in motion. He's already seen Katniss. But what can I tell Gale that would make him want to stay with me? To keep from turning into the men and women in the square? _I helped turn your best friend into the Mockingjay, I got your other friend turned into a slave…don't worry, you'll fare better with me than they did? That is, if your first love doesn't want you back. Because she isn't really dead like you thought._

I hug my knees to my chest and force myself to calm down. It's just a dream though, right? A figment of my subconscious manifesting the anxiety I've felt about Gale and Katniss since I learned she was alive. It doesn't mean anything. He's here sitting on my bed, after all, not with her.

_And he hasn't broken my heart_, I remind myself. Plus, I should be worrying about Katniss's well-being, not myself. It's selfish.

But Gale looks at me with such a forlorn expression that it's difficult to feel any reassurance that the dream is a fluke and not a premonition.

"So, you got your bath," he says.

I gape at him, wondering if I heard him right. The words don't match the trepidation in his voice, not to mention that it's the last thing I expected him to say.

"What?"

"You kept saying how you want a bath when we were in the wilderness," he reminisces. "I guess you finally got your wish. You look more like your old self."

"My old self?" I ask. How could I possible look like my old self? "You mean clean?"

"Yeah, clean." He shrugs. "Like the mayor's kid."

"Don't be silly. I'm not the mayor's kid anymore, Gale," I say, though it's a painful. "I'll never be that girl again."

Oddly, his face brightens. I find that I do too when I realize one thing that's truly off about the dream. The equation is gone. I'm not in the square – I'm on my way to District Thirteen. There is no Seam or town anymore and Gale and I don't belong to either. Who knows? Maybe whatever jinks placed on lovers in Twelve doesn't have a hold on us now that we're outside of it?

With this emotional buffer in place, I find the courage to broach the subject that's been plaguing me.

"How's Katniss?"

Gale's face falls a little and he looks away to hide it. He shrugs again, which I'm learning is anything but a sign of indifference with Gale. "She's been better."

"And you?" I ask. "Haymitch told me what happened to her and Peeta. I bet seeing her for the first time came as a shock."

He swallows, eyes trained on the floor. "We had an interesting reunion."

"I'd like to see her," I say when he doesn't offer anything other information.

"We'll see when she's up for it." He clears his throat. "Madge, there's something I think we should talk about—"

He's interrupted by a knock on the door. Rory pokes his head in and smirks at us. The expression reminds me of yesterday when he and Bristel caught us kissing in the meadow. It feels like another lifetime ago.

"Mom says we're getting something to eat," he tells us.

"Okay," Gale replies. He turns back to me and scratches the back of his head. "Actually, I'm supposed to tell you that it's time to get up. We'll be landing in an hour."

"An hour!" I scramble out of bed, then realize that I don't have anything to get ready for departure. No suitcase or clothes or anything. I let out an undignified snort. "I could have slept for another half hour at least." I cuff Gale on the arm. "Thanks a lot."

But he's not looking at my face. I follow his gaze down to my bare legs…and my trousers lying in a heap next to the bed. My heart lodges itself in my throat as a horrible, burning blush creeps all the way up to my hairline.

I haven't slept in nothing but my underwear in so long that I completely forgot I wasn't fully dressed. It doesn't matter that I have panties and my camisole on; I feel completely exposed and so embarrassed as I stand frozen in front of Gale. He quickly scoops up the trousers and tosses them at me, averting his eyes while I pull them on.

Rory's shirt landed across the room last night when I threw it off. I jerk my arms through the sleeves. I'm grasping for something to say to take the awkwardness out of the air and remember that Gale had something he wanted to talk to me about.

"What were you going to say before Rory came by?" I ask, buttoning the flannel up to my throat.

He stares at a point over my shoulder and swallows. "I'll tell you later."

…

Gale's stares at the hangar doors behind us, probably saying a silent goodbye to his beloved wilderness. We were all a little unnerved to learn that the former District Thirteen exists underground. But Gale's the only one rude enough to refer to it as a sewer in front of its representatives. Mining didn't leave him with fond underground experiences.

After they unloaded us from the hovercraft, we crossed an indoor tarmac. Voices echoed through the hangar in a canyon effect. The smell of fuel and oil made my stomach turn like it always did at home when trucks passed by delivering coal rations to the school, Justice Building, and other government facilities. The stink stays with me as men and women in black uniforms lead us through large plate glass walls.

The sheer size of this place…this is only the first floor? There are twelve others below? The man who briefed us aboard the Cole called Thirteen an underground metropolis. A real city. Huge. I believe it walking through the first level cavern. With the aid of technology and nearly a century of remodeling, looks more like a giant warehouse. Large ventilation ducts, electrical wires, and other pipes and things range over the ceiling and funnel down the walls. The aesthetics leave something to be desired.

Vick and Posy stand like little buffers between Gale and I while we queue up with the rest of the refugees. I wonder when we'll have our conversation and try not to let the silence get to me. Gale says just what he's thinking, I remind myself. If we were over, he'd have told me by now.

Hazelle keeps looking around for faces we might recognize from the Seam, but there are simply too many people. Rory asks if I've caught a glimpse of Katniss or the Everdeens. "I have Prim's blanket in my pack," he tells me. "I should, you know, probably give it back to her. She might need it."

My eyebrows knit in confusion and he hastily adds, "It wouldn't fit in hers."

"They must have gotten them off the hovercraft before everyone else," I tell him. The better to avoid…well, whatever there is to avoid when handling the symbol of a rebellion.

Hundreds of refugees mill in front of us, waiting to be processed and given quarters. I wonder how we're all going to fit and how long it will take. I remember Haymitch promising that I'll be cared for. I think VIP priority to the head of the line would be a good place to start. If only I knew where to find the man…

Bristel drops an oath next to me after another hour of waiting. He looks like a new man, clean-shaven and wearing clothes that aren't falling off in rags. I forgot to ask where he got them. His black hair curls around his forehead and ears, which stick out a little from his head now that they aren't locked under layers of grease and dirt.

We're all looking better.

"You smell good today, Bristel," I say without thinking when the scent of apple shampoo wafts toward me. Oh well. It doesn't hurt to fill the silence.

Bristel's bronzed skin crinkles around his grey eyes when he grins at me, looking every bit the urchin he's always been no matter how clean or filthy. He drapes an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. "You too, _Margaret_."

That's what he's decided to call me now, ever since Gale admitted that he didn't know my full name. He looks over and glares at Bristel, who drops his arm.

Gale and Rory take turns piggybacking Posy. We're starving and tired and well into the early morning hours by the time we reach the counter of full of frazzled looking men and women in a black uniforms trying to help file and house everyone. They each have thick books in front of them with rows of numbers, stacks of small cards, and piles of what look to be maps.

A woman with dark smudges under her eyes waves us forward. Her nametags reads, Allumina. Got to love the industry-centric names.

Allumina gives us a tired smile and takes our names and which district we're from. She writes this information down on three separate forms, then scans through her manual and writes down three different coordinates. Beginning with the Hawthornes, she issues tickets for food and clothing, then she gives them a map of the Underground and reads off the quarters she assigned them.

When it's my turn, she also hands me tickets and a map, but no quarters are assigned. I'm being sent to a dormitory with other women who haven't arrived with a family.

"Wait, what do you mean she didn't arrive with a family?" Gale asks. "She's with us."

"The dormitories are designed for singles to stay so that we can keep families together in the suites." The woman looks pointedly at Gale's brothers and sister. "We have limited room for expansion, as you might have noticed."

He jabs a thumb at Bristel, who hasn't been assigned yet. "Can't you reassign our quarters to include them?"

The smile slips off the woman's face, but she maintains some level of patience. "Is this young lady your sister?" she asks, although she knows I'm not. "Is he your brother?"

"No," Gale replies.

"Cousin, then?"

I can actually hear Gale gnashing his teeth. "I don't have _any_ cousins." The poor woman looks stunned by the vehemence of Gale's response to an innocent question. Naturally, she doesn't know she's talking to the most famous and frustrated "cousin" in Panem.

I step in. "We're not related, but I've been traveling with his family." I kick myself. Why couldn't I simply state that he's my boyfriend? "They're all I have."

"I'm afraid there simply isn't room for multiple families in a unit," she says, letting the moral and practical implications slide in with her tone. "The dormitories…"

"Look, you've given us two bedrooms," Gale says, pointing at the map and the floor plan of their suite. "Bristel and Madge add only one more person per room. I don't see how it makes a difference." In the Seam, they're used to sandwiching family together into one bedroom.

Hazelle steps in. "Really, ma'am, if we don't object to them staying with us, I fail to see how you can."

"It's a matter of code and I'm afraid it's simply isn't…" She breaks off when she sees Gale's scowl.

I reach out to squeeze his hand. "It's okay, Gale." Let's not cause the poor woman any more trouble. "There's half a district full of people waiting behind us," I remind him.

He's biting hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from dogging the woman.

Allumina hands me a tag with the dorm number on it. We aren't even on the same floor, I realize with a sinking heart. She points out a group of women huddled at the end of the room waiting to be led to our destination. Wards, she calls us. I don't recognize anyone.

We're directed through a cordoned maze leading into the back of Level 1, which access the rest of the Underground. Then we're left to make our own way down.

Hazelle pulls Bristel and I into a hug, looking like her own kids are being sent away.

"You'll still see us around, Mrs. Hawthorne," Bristel quips with his usual good humor, although his smile seems a little tighter. "Especially if they don't give us something better to do than bug you all."

"That's right," I say, then give Posy a kiss on the cheek and ruffle Vick's hair.

My throat feels tight when I turn to Gale. "I guess I better go."

He offers to walk me over, but pulls me aside before we join the group.

"We'll figure something out," he tells me. "I bet Haymitch can pull some strings. You'll be okay for tonight?"

"I'll be fine," I lie. I don't want to admit how alone I've felt since he walked out of that waiting room with Haymitch last afternoon. "I'll pretend I'm sleeping in the meadow and you're all there with me."

The memory flashes in his eyes and when he kisses me, I can feel the same warmth that was there in the long grass.

"I'll find you tomorrow," he promises. "We'll get all of this sorted."

I nod and squeeze his hand one last time, then join the other girls who don't have any family.

…

We take turns filling the lifts until eventually all of us are on Level 9. Officials dedicated this floor solely to the large rooms called the Dorms. Half of them are filled with men and the other half with women. There are six in all. I'm in number 2.

It's past midnight but the long, crowded room buzzes with activity. Little girls, even old women, sleep, talk, shuffle their sparse belongings down the length of the room. I know myself well enough to know that before long I'm going to want to jump in front of a gun unless lights out and quiet times are established.

Bright patches of wall reveal the girls who have been here a while. The spaces above their beds are tacked over with pieces of paper, adverts, even food wrappers folded into colorful designs. I guess you do what you can to make yourself feel at home. We new girls are assigned a narrow bed beneath the bare patches of whitewashed walls. Drawers roll out beneath the bed for our belongings. Mine will remain empty for a while, I guess, since I haven't got any money or any possessions. I don't even know if there are stores down here and I have nothing but the ration tickets.

I climb into bed with my clothes on, only bothering to kick of my boots. The sheets itch and the mattress feels like it has too many miles on it. The woman next to me folds her limp pillow in half before she rests on it.

The girl sitting on the bed across the aisle smiles at me then falls back on her pillow. Her wall is filled with squiggly portraits she drew, probably of her family. Somehow she's able to ignore the racket and sleep. I wonder how long I'll have to be down here before I'm able to do the same. I fold my pillow and try to fold up my worries at the same time, and stash them in some dark corner of my mind.

I fall asleep staring at the ceiling.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading!_

AN: Madge's Dream: Mr. Mellark is there because Mrs. Everdeen eventually came from the Seam. It's a bit of a stretch, but I'm sure she continued to break his heart long after she moved out of the town. In medea!verse, Haymitch and Maysilee certainly had a thing going on. In the end they had to become enemies. I bet that broke their hearts.

OCs:

Allumina – a woman of District 13

Hanne: The Undersee's old housekeeper

Sidler – Madge's attacker in Part I

Tansy - community girl who Madge befriended in Part I

Quintus McFarlane – a god among men


	5. Chapter 5

Maree: I'm always happy to oblige when it comes to Madge/Gale love. Thanks for leaving a review!

Jade and Cinbad: Thanks for your reviews!

**AN:** I think I really miss writing about Madge and Gale in District 12, LOL! There are some throwbacks to earlier stories in this chapter, mostly Repaid, where Madge was a tea-horking fool. Also, Hazelle ftw.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_Gale's POV

* * *

_

Fingers brush the hair off of my forehead. Mom? "Time to wake up."

I try lifting my head, but burrow it deeper into the pillow instead. "Is it?" I mumble. How is that possible? "It's dark."

I hear mom laugh to herself. "We don't have any windows down here, Gale."

"Yeah," I say stupidly. That's going to take some getting used to.

She leaves my brothers and me to drag ourselves away from the softest beds we've ever slept in and throw on brand new shirts, pants, socks and shoes. Nobody ever told me how stiff new clothes are. No wonder Katniss always changed back into her old hunting clothes when Mrs. E wasn't looking. Although, I appreciate the odorless factor and general lack of holes.

I shuffle out into the common room behind an over-stimulated, bug-eyed Vick. He's got so much to observe and think about down here that he didn't have one nightmare last night. With that expression on his face mixed with a serious case of bedhead, he reminds me of that Beetee guy.

Posy passes out bowls for cold cereal and we dig into a fibrous breakfast of plywood squares – at least, that's what it tastes like.

I take another half-hearted spoonful when we hear a knock on the door. Throwing the spoon back into the bowl, I move to answer it. Some kid wearing the exact same clothes as I am give me a weird look. I don't care if my bedhead looks as bad as Vick's. I bare my teeth and the kid blanches. I bet there's some plywood cereal stuck in there somewhere.

"G-Gale Hawthorne?"

"That's me."

"I have a message for you." He hands an envelope stained with water rings to me and waits. I don't know for what. After a minute of awkward staring he calls me a rude name and stalks off.

"Thanks," I grunt at the back of his head, then close the door.

_Quit harassing me or I'll have you thrown in the brig. If you want to meet with me, it better be this morning or you can forget it. Level 1, Office B. –H_

H…Haymitch. "Since when is a strongly-worded request a case for harassment?" I mutter to myself. I only sent him five requests since last morning. But I decide not to call Haymitch's bluff and head straight to Level 1…after I take care of some business.

"Gale, where are you going?" Mom asks as I throw my shoes on, then scribble a quick note on a paper napkin. That's what I used yesterday, too. If I want to wipe my face, I'll use my sleeve, thanks.

"Give this to Madge for me." I kiss her cheek and press the napkin into her hand. Then I bolt out the door.

I manage to get a lift to myself somehow and pause over the buttons. I have a few choices. Yesterday I chose 3 and spent the day shut in the medical wing after a panicked note from Mrs. E. That visit prompted me to spam Haymitch. See, I don't like living underground, but Katniss is…catatonic. That happens when your dad blows up in a mining accident. Then add all the other stresses she's under. Only one thing will help the situation, but it's going to require some hard-core retrieving.

Yesterday I intended to hit 9 – that's where I should be going today. I exhale and press 1…Madge will understand.

…

_Madge's POV_

It's a simple matter of pressing the UP button, of getting from Level 9 to Level 6. Gale said he'd come get me, but that's also what he said the day before. Why shouldn't I go to him? I have a right, after all. Part of me wants to know how this will play out without my interference – and just let Gale do whatever Gale's going to do. Maybe that's tempting fate, or maybe it's letting the inevitable happen?

I could also push the 3 button again once I get inside. The medical wing occupies half of that level. I asked Gale if we could see Katniss together the day we arrived here. She's my resurrected friend, too. He said maybe when she was up to it. When he didn't show up yesterday, I decided to try it for myself only to be told at the nurse's station that nobody but family was allowed to see her. I pointed out to the nurse that Gale was not related. She told me to go away.

Maybe a different nurse will be on duty today who will let me in? Back home I never had to worry about being restricted from seeing anyone I wanted. Those rules simply didn't apply to the mayor's daughter. Yet another reminder that I'm nobody in the Underground.

My finger touches the lukewarm plastic but I don't push down. I don't know what I _want_ to do. I don't know what _else_ to do.

"Madge!"

I look over my shoulder in confusion, wondering who would call my name. I see a splash of dark, tangled curls coming toward me through the sea of shoulders.

"Tansy?"

It _is_ Tansy. Short, smiling, and much thinner than I remember. She cannonballs into me and squeezes the air out of my body. "You're alive! We thought for sure you were toast when you left and Sidler came back all…well, really angry and itchy..." she jabbers away, holding my arm like she's afraid I'll disappear.

I try to hide how the memory of my first escape from Sidler makes me shiver.

"…We found other refugees and then the hovercrafts came. Turns out the strangers weren't lying about the camp," she finishes.

"No, I guess not," I say. I look around trying to spot the other girls, little Mallow or Hester or…or even Aster, the girl who actually seemed fond of Liquor. "Are you by yourself?"

She shakes her head. "No, the rest of the girls are getting inoculated…we picked up a few things in the woods." I resist the urge to gently remove her hand from my elbow. She looks around us, oblivious. "Are you here alone?"

"No, she ran into an angel of mercy. Me." Bristel steps around me. I visibly start, having forgotten that he's living in the dorms, too. "When I found her, she was half-naked and barely alive, but I nursed her back to health with nothing but my wits."

"And keen sense of humor," I mutter. "Bristel, this is Tansy, one of the girls I escaped with. Tansy, this is Bristel, my fri—"

"Savior," he helps me out.

"Lucky you," she whispers to me, staring appreciatively at Bristel. I mouth _liar_, which he chooses to ignore.

He shakes her hand and croons, "Pleased to know you, Tansy."

Tansy blushes at his gallantry, but eventually pulls her hand away when someone calls her name. "Um, well, I better get back to the girls." She squeezes my arm. "I'm really glad you're okay. You'll have to tell me how you dealt with Sidler sometime."

"Sure," I say, though I'd rather pull my teeth out instead of talk about that. When she's gone I round on Bristel. "Angel of mercy?"

Bristel shrugs. "It depends on what angle you're looking from. I was on mood control _and_ matchmaking." He grins at me.

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Bristel."

"Why?" I can see the wheels turning in his head while he considers my meaning. "Oh, I see. You have this notion in your head that a certain no-longer-dead friend will have adverse effects on your relationship with Gale? Don't be silly, Madge."

No? Where does he suppose Gale spent his time yesterday after he promised to find me? Look, I know my place in Gale's priorities. Nothing has changed in that respect.

"So, are you heading up?" he asks.

"Yes, I was about to."

"Well, I'll come with you, and then you can tell me all about that young lady." Bristol punches the button. "After all, you owe me."

…

_Gale's POV_

"He's in here?" I ask a fusty looking woman rifling through a file cabinet.

"Excuse me, that office is restricted to—" she cries, but I'm already sailing through a door with a black B sticker peeling off. Haymitch doesn't even look up from a stack of papers when the door crashes shut.

"I guess they gave you B for bastard."

"That's right. Have a seat, Hawthorne—"

I lean over the desk, resting my flat palms on the battered wood. I need to make a few things clear before Haymitch turns me into one of his pawns, so I ignore the order and stay leaning against the desk. "I want in and I want to know what's going on."

"Typical brash miner. I have no idea if you mean you want 'in' to a poker game or the stock market."

I stab a finger into a mockingjay seal stamped on one of the documents. "I mean this."

Bloodshot eyes flicker up for a moment, but they seem more interested in the cracked wall paint than me. "I don't owe you anything. What makes you think you can walk in here making demands?"

I step back from the desk. "No, you don't owe me. But the way I see it, you owe Katniss. Right now the one thing she wants is the Mellark kid back. I want to know what efforts are being made and I want to help."

Haymitch grimaces. "You're a hero. Or is Peeta growing on you?"

I set him straight. "I'm doing this for Katniss, not Peeta. I want to be on the team going in for him, because she can't," I tell him. "I spent all day with her yesterday because her mother is useless. Katniss can't stand feeling helpless and it's driving her mad. She needs to know that somebody's trying to help and she doesn't trust you."

He doesn't seem surprised to hear it. "Who says there's a team?" he challenges, leaning back in the chair. It squalls in protest.

"It's almost been a month since the arena exploded," I cry. How could there not be? I stand to my fullest height. "If there isn't one yet, then you're looking at him."

Haymitch studies me, lips pursed, eyes hooded. I refuse to look away first.

Turns out neither of us do. Haymitch leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk. "You sent me a barrage of graffitied napkins so you could commit yourself to suicide?" He snorts. "Well, who am I to get in the way of a man and his death wish. Alright, son, you're in."

Huh. That was easier than I thought. I step away from the desk and back up toward the door to tell Katniss the good news, but Haymitch isn't done.

"And while you're here, there's some people I'd like you to meet…"

Suddenly I get the feeling Haymitch had this planned all along and I walked right into the snare. In fact, I set the snare and stepped in it myself.

…

_Madge's POV_

_Sorry. Tied up. See you soon._ _– Gale_

"That's it?" I ask, not bothering to hide the bitterness in my voice. I should have known when Hazelle opened the door and told me to come inside.

"I'm sorry, Madge. Gale wishes he could be here," says Hazelle.

I give Bristel a _I told you so_ look and he quickly makes up an excuse to leave.

"He's been with Haymitch since this morning," Hazelle continues while I follow her to the couch.

Hmph. Haymitch. I can't help but feel that if Gale wanted to see me he'd stop writing notes and tell Haymitch to bugger himself. But instead, I crumple up the second note he's left in two days since we've arrived in the Underground. I saved the first _Sorry, I'll see you tomorrow_, thinking I'd see my boyfriend soon, and until then, the paper he'd written on would suffice. This second note waters things a bit. It's a simple matter of economics – supply and demand. Right now he's supplying a lot more excuses than I have any desire for.

Hazelle pats my arm. "Thirteen isn't exactly what we expected."

"Not really." I didn't expect that I'd feel like I fitted into a family again, only to have it taken away as soon as we got here. I didn't expect Gale to go missing. Or to start breaking his promises. That _I'll find you tomorrow, I promise_ garbage. It's tomorrow – it's _been_ tomorrow.

Hazelle gives me a mischievous grin that reminds me startlingly of Gale. "I think I may have found something to cheer you up."

"Um…what?"

She leads me into the tiny kitchen area. "Close your eyes."

My eyebrow arches. "Hazelle."

"It's a surprise."

I obey and close my eyes. I feel her calloused fingers place a silken pouch in my palm, then fold my fingers over it. "Can I look?"

"Yes."

It's a tea bag. I don't need to look at the label, just hold it to my nose. Citrus and a hint of vanilla. "Earl Grey?"

"Just like you gave me that night in your mother's kitchen." Hazelle's smile widens. Her skin creases in fine lines around her eyes and mouth. "Gale will kill me of course, when he finds out how many stamps I used…"

I throw my arms around her neck. "Thank you."

She folds me in her arms just like she really was my mother. "I'm still angry that they wouldn't let you stay with us. I thought this might help you feel a little closer to home." I ask her when we can make the tea and she lets go to fill the pot with water.

"Where are the rest of the kids?" I ask while the water boils.

"Screening," she tells me.

I nod. All the refugee children are tested to determine their placement in the underground education system. "They screened me yesterday. They say that in some districts the kids are so indoctrinated that the teachers barely allowed time for subjects that didn't directly correspond to the history of Panem, the Dark Days, and their native industry. They're setting kids in high school back several years."

"And you?" she asks.

I squirm in my seat. "Um, actually, they're considering me a graduate."

Hazelle throws sachets into two mugs then pours the water. "Didn't you have another year of school back in Twelve?"

"I had access to a lot of books, so," I fixate on my shoes. "I guess I did well on their tests."

"Your father's books. That makes sense." She says it without any judgment in her voice. I don't know why I feel so embarrassed by the disparity in our economic situation and anything that points to it. I just do. Hazelle always seems oblivious.

"What about you?" I ask. "What have you been doing?"

"Well," she sighs. "Besides everyone needing to have a second physical examination and waiting in those lines, I haven't had much time to look for a job." Hazelle doesn't approve of the ration stamps we will be issued each week, and she's never been one to sit around and let others take care of her family. I never met Mr. Hawthorne, so I don't know what his work ethic was like, but Gale certainly shares his mother's sense of responsibility. "I spent the remainder of yesterday altering the clothes from the sutler. Vick's trousers were too long, though I imagine he'll grow into them quickly. I can let down the hem when that happened. And Gale," she rolls her eyes, "can never find trousers that are long enough. I had the same trouble with his father and he'd always come home from the woods with holes and snags ruining his clothes. Half our marriage I spent trying to find trousers that fit him."

I laugh at her look of long suffering. "Well, I don't think I'll be growing into my pair," I say, showing her the trodden hem. I can barely see my shoes sticking out underneath. "I don't think _standard issue_ clothing is made to fit anyone."

Hazelle smiles. "I can fix those for you."

"Thanks."

Someone knocks on the door. Hazelle gives me a puzzled shrug, then goes to answer it.

…

_Gale's POV_

"So there _is_ a team," I grumble as two men and a woman file into the office. I lean against the wall to make room in the small space.

"Finnick Odair of Four, Nev Rockbridge of Thirteen, and Captain Quintus McFarlane, who will lead this team." Haymitch says each name like he's biting off pieces of leather. He jabs a meaty thumb at me. "Gale Hawthorne of Twelve. He'll represent Katniss on our little outing."

Quintus gives me a nod of recognition. Nev shakes my hand. They join me on the wall.

The grey-faced District Four victor slumps in the chair. Funny, he's a lot more impressive on TV. "So, you're her cousin," he asks without looking away from the corner of Haymitch's desk.

Hell's teeth. That question galls me. The man's a mess, though so I rein in my temper. I've had some practice with that lately. I say, "Yeah. Kissing cousins."

A thin smirk or grimace makes a brief appearance on Odair's face. "My sympathies." Then his eyes harden, pinning Haymitch with his glare. "Katniss is the symbol of the rebellion, don't you think she should be a part of this? Isn't that why we swore to protect her, Haymitch?"

"She's emotionally compromised."

Finnick laughs bitterly. "Aren't we all?"

"If you get yourself killed, Finnick, Annie will mourn you," says Haymitch tersely. "If Katniss gets killed because of some souped up romance, the rebellion will falter."

Finnick shrugs and actually seems to brighten. "It's good to know one's place in the universe."

Haymitch gives the rest of us the evil eye. "Any other objections to leaving Katniss behind?"

None.

"Good." Haymitch rifles through a desk drawer, then holds up stack of photos. "We received confirmation last night that Annie Cresta was transported out of Four to the Capitol." He stares pointedly at Finnick, as if gauging the man's reaction. But Finnick sits like he's made of stone. "She and Peeta Mellark are still alive. Snow's holding them in the Training Center." He passes the glossies around for everyone to have a look. Finnick pockets the one with the girl after staring at it like a starving man stares at cookbook pictures.

Annie Cresta? The name sounds familiar, but it takes me a moment to place her. District Four victor. They pulled her name in the Quarter Quell reaping, but the old woman volunteered for her. She must be a good friend of Odair's.

I pause over one of Peeta Mellark. He's on top of a roof looking over the edge while two Peacekeepers watch his back. They haven't taken his fake leg away – at least not when spies took this photo. For some reason I figured they would. I wonder if Haymitch will let me take this back to Katniss? I wait until the conversation begins again to pull a Finnick and shove it in my pocket.

Quintus hands the remaining photos back to Haymitch, discretely ignoring the missing two. "We are the inside guys," he tells us. "Our team is responsible for the recovery of Peeta Mellark and Annie Cresta." Quintus looks over at Haymitch, then clears his throat, "And one other prisoner, if possible. A recon team will go ahead of us to clear the way and we'll have additional Mockingjay soldiers watching our backs."

"Are we going to find out who this mystery prisoner is?" Nev asks wryly.

"When we find out if said prisoner is alive," Haymitch growls.

I cross my arms over my chest and ask the crucial question, "So, when are we going?"

"No date yet," says Haymitch. "And some of us require training." I'm the only one he looks at.

"We're also waiting for an opportune moment," Quintus adds.

"No time like the present," Finnick mutters at the armrest.

"True. But if we can wait for the Capitol to make it easier for us," Nev replies with an air of authority, "Then we will."

Finnick makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and sinks lower into the chair. I have a feeling that for him, no moment will be any easier than the other.

Haymitch dismisses us after setting up another meeting – this time in Thirteen's version of a training center on Level 2. He makes some disparaging remarks about archery, which I don't appreciate. But I see his point. It's not a bad idea to learn to shoot a gun. I have a feeling I'll enjoy it.

Then I remember throwing up in the shrubs after killing Sidler. Sure, I'll enjoy target practice…we'll see about the mission.

The captain steps up beside me in the corridor. He's not wearing that flashy aviator anymore, but he's still got goggles pushing his hair in every which direction and those pants that can't feel comfortable. I remember Madge's admiring gaze following him and I guess I know why he wears them that way. Prat. You know, he's halfway to a wedgie already...it'd be so easy to finish it.

McTightPants claps me on the shoulder. "How are you holding up since saw you last, Hawthorne?"

I shrug, trying to shove down my ire toward him.

"It must be a relief, not having to fight to survive in the wilderness," he continues. I'm staggered by some folks' talent for small talk.

I frown. "I know my way around the woods. It's like breathing."

His eyebrow manages to lift under the weight of all that metal. "But?"

"I don't like living underground like a mole or a sewer rat."

"You were a miner, were you not?" he asks politely.

"For a year."

He actually shudders. "Sounds horrid."

_Yeah. It was. And it kept people like you warm in your gigantic houses. Gave you light while the rest of us slaved away in the dank, dark pits._

He seems to notice that he's the last person I want to talk to about my life in Twelve, seeing as how he's a Capitol tool. Then I feel guilty. Even if he's a tool, he's here and not in the Capitol. I bet he gave up a pretty comfortable existence to join the rebellion.

To make up for grumbling, I say, "This place is a lot nicer than the mines where I worked. But, yeah, it's the principle of the thing."

"Understood," Quintus says. "The Underground isn't much, but it's home. I've been here for three years. You get used to it." He smirks. "But sometimes I make up excuses to fly just to see a bit of green." He gives me a knowing look. "After this mission, if you ever need an escape, let me know. I'm happy to oblige."

"Thanks," I say. It's kind of pat for an offer like that, but I don't really know what else to say. Then I realize that there's a more immediate way that Quintus can help me. Even if it means giving up some self-respect to ask this particular advice. "Look, can I ask you a question? You know more about this place."

"Shoot." He waits expectantly for me to ask.

"Uh." Man up, Hawthorne. "Do you know of a place where I could take a girl out? I kind of owe her."

Quintus sucks on one of his lip rings, which makes me kind of nauseous. "What sort of girl?" His eyes brighten. "You mean that nice thing you came with?"

"Yes," I grumble.

His perfect white teeth show through his grin. "That narrows it down a bit. Well, I like to take nice girls to the Broken Oar." He gives me a knowing look. "And they accept ration tickets."

Right. Hadn't thought of that. "And where is this place?"

"Level Four. In case you forget, the name rhymes." He grins. "Broken Oar, level Four. You can sing it."

"Yeah. Got it."

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading! And thanks to Ceylon205 for beta!_

List of OCs:

Allumina – a woman of District 13

Aster: Community Home girl, 15-16 yrs

Doohan: Purser, The Maysilee

Hanna: The Undersee's old housekeeper

Hester: Community Home dorm officer, 19-20 years old

Leo: Corporal, The Maysilee

Liquor: D12 man, real name is Sidler

Mallow: CH girl, 11 yrs

Nevada: Mockingjay soldier born in D13

Pike: Captain, the Maysilee

Quintus McFarlane – a god among men

Sidler – Madge's attacker in Part I

Tansy: Community Home girl, 18 yrs

Water: D12 man, friend of Liquor


	6. Chapter 6

**Anonymous Reviewers**: Thanks for checking out my story and leaving me notes! Love it.

**AN: **Erm. I did forget to mention Johanna in the last chapter. I know. Lame. In medea!verse, she died pretty quickly after being captured, so it didn't even occur to me to even mention her in the rescue meeting. Sorry about that! This might be explored more in my other story _We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay, _a Fannie tale.

Also, vote for some stuff (stuff being awesome HG fics): http:/sites**(dot)**google**(dot)**com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_Gale's POV_

_Level Four, Broken Oar. _

I'd like to shove an oar up the pilot's backside for getting that rhyme stuck in my head. He's not that far down the other end of the corridor, so I could still go back and do it. However, seeing as he's the mission leader, I get a grip on myself and stay on course down to Level Three. Hopefully this Oar place isn't some seedy dive or Madge won't ever let me forget it, on top of blowing her off the last few days. I'll just send her a quick message to let her know to meet me, and that will free me up to do other business: I've got to give Katniss the photo and tell her how the meeting went.

Nurse Chapel's sitting at the front desk this afternoon. She looks up when I push through the ward doors. She knows me now and doesn't ask me to wait for clearance. I sign in anyway, in case somebody's looking for me, then ask her for a piece of paper.

Again.

She rolls her eyes and hands me a notepad and pen. I scribble a quick note, complete with Quintus's rhyme, then fold it in half and hand it to the nurse.

"Has the—"

"No, the mail hasn't come yet."

"Would you —"

"Madge Undersee, Dorm 2 or Level 6 number…" she rattles off. Then she says, mildly sardonic, "Anything else?"

I scratch my head. "That should cover it. Thanks."

She presses the button that unlocks the second set of security doors between the waiting room and the ward, muttering, "Send flowers next time."

…

_Madge's POV_

Someone knocks on the door. Hazelle gives me a puzzled shrug. She sets down her tea and goes to answer it.

A boy about Rory's age stands outside the door with a messenger bag hanging on his shoulder. "I'm looking for Madge Undersee," he says. "Er, I was told that she'd be here or at the dorms…"

I step forward, both eager and resigned. "I'm Madge Undersee." He gives me the note.

_Madge, meet me at the Broken Oar. Level Four. Five o'clock. –Gale _

That's it.

I remind myself that I knew he wasn't eloquent before we entered into this relationship. Still. The sparse note leaves me feeling dissatisfied.

"What's the Broken Oar?" I ask the boy.

"It's a pub." He holds out his hand and I dig in my pocket for a ration stamp, which is all I have for a tip. Satisfied, the messenger boy walks to his next destination.

_A pub? _I shove away the fact that I've never actually been in one of those places. It means Gale's trying. A faint, warm glow settles in my stomach. Finally, I'll get to see him for more than a few minutes.

"It's good news, I hope," Hazelle says.

I blush, forgetting that she's still in the room. "I think I'm going on my first date."

…

_Gale's POV_

"Come in."

I poke my head in the door first to scope out the situation. Doesn't look like any other visitors are hanging out in Katniss's private room. No surprise there. I think I'm the only one with clearance besides Haymitch and maybe that Odair fellow.

Katniss lies in bed still. An empty food tray hovers over her legs on one of those trolley things. I'm glad to see she's eating now. Maybe this will be a good day?

"Where are your folks?" I ask, stepping inside and shutting the door. Usually one or both of the Everdeens are parked in the chair next to the hospital bed.

Katniss pushes the tray away. "Prim had some sort of test she had to take and my mother's trying to convince the nurses that she can work with them."

She sits up and I help her off the bed onto her own shaky feet. "Okay?" I ask.

"I'm dizzy," she tells me. "I've been laying around too much."

"I'll say," I tease.

Katniss scowls. "Well, my mom ordered me to take a shower, so my lazy days are over," she says with a wry twist on her lips. We both know laziness has nothing to do with it. "Are you going to help me up or what?"

I wrap my arm under hers, holding her ribcage against mine and help her walk the length of the room toward the bathroom. Towels and washcloths are stacked on a shelf inside the bathroom door. Across the way, a sink and mirror are built into the wall beside a toilet. The shower takes up the opposite wall. Fortunately there's a shelf-like seat for patients to use. I set her down on the seat. I help her take off her socks, because reaching down fritzes her equilibrium. I'd hate to explain to Mrs. E how Katniss cracked her head open during my watch.

"Er, you're on your own after that," I tell her, throwing the socks on the floor.

A ghost of a smile spreads over her face. "You have no idea how little I care about modesty anymore. Not after all the time I spent in the Games."

"Yeah, well, I'm still a blushing virgin," I say without thinking. "So if you don't mind, I'll step out."

She blanches. "So am I."

I pause at the door, holding onto the handle. "What?"

Katniss looks down at her bare toes, which just barely brush over the tiles. "A…you know…"

For something that was supposed to be an offhanded remark, it sure turned things awkward. It doesn't stop me from trying to ask more. Katniss and I haven't talked much about the Quell or anything that happened during prep week for obvious reason.

"So no…uh." I wave my hand in the air, which I guess is the universal sign for nookie between awkward people.

Katniss takes a deep breath. She's blushing up to her hairline. "I meant what I went through with the Prep team, Gale, like getting waxed within an inch of my life. Not anything with Peeta. No secret marriage. No baby…nothing that would lead to a baby," she mutters, turning her grey eyes on me.

I let go of the doorknob and fold my arms. "Well, after the interviews I assumed…." My voice sounds accusing, even to me. But this isn't the time or place for me to grill her. "Whatever. It doesn't matter."

"Gale, you need to learn when Peeta is lying."

I grunt. "Noted," I say, hoping she'll drop it.

She does. I flee the bathroom and take refuge in the chair by Katniss's bed. _Boy, you need to control your mouth._ I wonder if my friendship with her will consist entirely of short-lived happy moments and lots of misunderstandings from here on out.

We're just too keyed up for our own good. It'll be easier once I finish this mission. Peeta will be around, which won't necessarily make me feel rosy on the inside, but Katniss will relax. Then I can tell her about Madge. I'd tell her now, but what is she supposed to say? That she's happy for us? Sensitivity isn't my strong point, but I know what it's like to watch a friend hook up and not able to do anything. This is not the same triangulated situation back in Twelve, but it's close enough.

I try to relax a little in the chair and decide to put my legs up on the bed while I wait. My mind has other ideas for how to fill my time. It wanders to all the things I _should_ be doing right now. The most pressing one being how much I owe Madge. She's been patient with me. I'll make it up to her tonight. Well, as much as I can make it up to her in a booth.

That's just one more positive aspect of the wilderness. Tons of privacy.

I groan and rub my hand over my face and hair. When's the last time we've had any of that?

Images of Madge's bare legs pan involuntarily through my mind. When she accidentally bolted out of bed the other day and made me rethink giving her the "you have choices" speech; or when she stood on the bank of the river trying to pull Rory's shirt down before wading in; or my favorite: when she stood in the stream with the spear and sunlight reflecting off the water. The look of concentration on her face. Her pale skin with just a few poison itch scabs…I wonder what her skin would feel like if I touched her behind her knee? She'd let me try it if I kissed her below her ear first, she'd blush and gasp, unable to tell me not to…

"Gale, if I didn't know you better I'd think you were daydreaming."

"Huh?" I didn't notice Katniss come out of the bathroom. She's wearing a long bathrobe and a towel's wrapped around her head. Along with a look of consternation on her face. I swing my legs off the bed and sit up straight. "I don't daydream."

Katniss snorts silently and walks over to a drawer of clothes. "Your eyes were glazed over like you were about to bite into a venison steak."

"I could go for some venison steak," I mutter evasively. No way am I going to talk to Katniss about Madge's legs. I roll with the food idea. "Yesterday I ate some slop called macaroni and cheese."

Katniss grabs clean clothes and heads back into the bathroom to change. I'm off the hook.

Katniss comes out a few minutes later scowling and braiding her hair.

Yup. She's adjusting pretty well compared to yesterday's prolonged panic attack. Her face doesn't look like old paste and, well, she doesn't have to stick her head between her legs to breathe. I know that she had a hard time going on the mine fieldtrips with school, but I never saw how much being underground traumatized her…traumatizes her still. But let's face it, the baggage is piled so high on her shoulders that stepping into a root cellar would probably set her off right now, let alone delving levels and levels below the earth.

So, I guess this is as good a time as any to bring up why I'm really here.

I stand up and pace across the room. If it had a window, I'd be looking out of it. I clear my throat, aiming for nonchalance. "I talked to Haymitch this morning."

Her expression hardens completely. "And?"

"Heavensbee told you the truth," I tell her. "There _is_ a rescue effort underway. I'm on the team."

She balks. "You?"

"Yeah. Somebody has to make sure they do it right," I grouse.

Doubt shows plainly in her eyes. "You aren't a soldier, Gale. How did you talk Haymitch into it? He doesn't even like you."

Her lack of faith is a bit discouraging. It doesn't matter. "I just told him."

"You…_told_…Haymitch?" she says, stunned. "You just walked up to him and that was that?"

"Yeah." I shrug. Why is that so hard to believe?

I watch her face to gauge her response. Fear. Hope. Frustration?

"I'm part of the team?" she murmurs distractedly. I'm not exactly sure what she's thinking about, but her mind seems to be jumping from one idea to the next.

"Come on, Katniss," I hedge. She has to know she can't come.

"Why not?" she demands.

I pace to the other side of the room. "You're not ready and it's not safe for you."

"It isn't safe for anyone," she argues.

"Especially not for you. I mean, you're number one on Snow's hate list," I grate. "You want to jump around in his backyard trying to get Peeta out? Snow's looking extra hard for you and it'll jeopardize the whole mission."

She gets right up in my face. "I owe it to Peeta."

"You'll do him a favor by staying here, then."

"What, you're on his side? You know what he wants?"

"The kid made his position pretty plain. I'm not choosing sides, I'm choosing what's smart." Right now I see a girl stumbling around a hospital room on wobbly legs. Her frazzled, acid-eaten hair pulled into a wet braid. A scar stands out high on her too-thin arm. A normally cool and collected hunter so keyed up she can't see sense. Katniss isn't going anywhere.

"I have more right to go than you," she cries, changing tactics.

"Yeah, I know," I admit. "But you're not."

Katniss's lips press into a thin line. I can't blame her. Neither of us likes being told what to do. She crosses her arms. "Why are you so eager?"

Yeah, why? There's a thick layer of bitterness between me and the dough boy. I don't owe him anything, except maybe that he did everything he could to save Katniss, which couldn't be an easy job. Not when she was so bent on saving his butt instead. Katniss never accepts favors easily. Neither do I, I guess.

I won't pretend that I'm Peeta's friend and I still don't like his dealings with Katniss. He's a manipulative liar who smiles too much. Plus, he's a baker. A merchant. In a completely different league from Katniss. At least until the Games paired them together by shared experience.

The bottom line here is that he's Katniss's friend and he's in trouble. I'll set aside my misgivings for that. Like I told Haymitch, it's what she needs to move forward.

Katniss chews on her lip, waiting for my reply.

I shrug. She should know it's because of our friendship without me having to tell her. "I wouldn't say I'm eager, but I'll go in your place." Then I mutter as an afterthought, "And not because you have great taste in guys."

I was being serious, but she actually laughs. "Not that long ago I didn't have any taste in guys, Gale."

Huh. "Yeah. I got that." I throw myself back in the chair.

She grimaces, realizing her mistake, and sits on the bed so she's next to me. "I'm sorry, Gale. I didn't want what you wanted."

"I always thought that was because we lived in District 12," I say sullenly. "I thought if we ever got out then you'd be different. Guess I was right."

Katniss hands envelope my face, startling me. "Gale, do you really think it can be different now?" she says gently. Her eyes hold a sadness well beyond her years, like she thinks she's breaking my heart again. "With us?"

I'm doubly startled that she's misunderstanding me. I resigned myself to the fact that she chose Peeta. For all I knew they were engaged. Or married and pregnant. And then dead. I wasn't lying to myself or Madge on that level. Katniss is the closest person to me outside of my family, but I'm not in love with her anymore. I can't look at her that way, knowing she belongs to someone else.

"Katniss, I'm with—" I catch myself before I spill about Madge. "I meant I was right that you'd change your mind about falling in love in general. Or with Peeta. Not me."

Then it occurs to me that I haven't thought this mission through very well. I focused on what's good for Katniss, but forgot to consider the cost. I'm willing to help Katniss, but I'm risking an awful lot. I've got Madge to think about. If I'm going to put our relationship on the line for Katniss's, it better be for a damn good reason.

"That's all real, right?" She gives me a puzzled look, so I try to explain. "You told me that the engagement was a fake, but what you feel for him now…that's love, right?"

Katniss folds her hands in her lap and stares at them for a long moment. "I think so. Why?"

"Katniss, listen, if I'm going to risk my life to save Peeta, it better be because you love him full out. As far as I'm concerned, you better beg him on your hands and knees to marry _you_ when I drag his gimpy butt down here."

She smiles a little. "I will."

"I'll keep you posted on everything with the mission. You won't really be left out," I say, returning to the original argument. "You have to know that it's better for everyone if you're safe down here."

She nods slowly. "I guess." Then she says, "I never asked to become the symbol, Gale. I hate that Haymitch and the others turned me into this. I feel more useless than ever. I can't even save Peeta."

That reminds me. I stand up and dig in my pocket. "Before I go, I brought this for you." The photo is a bit dog-eared, but not too bad. You can still see Peeta leaning against the wall on the roof, looking out into the City, without any creases in the way. She seizes it from my hand.

Katniss's good humor dissolves with one look at it. She sits transfixed and then everything crumbles.

"They've really got him," Katniss says in a nearly silent shriek. "I mean, I _know_, but…this makes it real. I should be there, not him." She chokes on a sob.

"Whoa, Katniss, we're going to get him back." I move beside her on the mattress and she clutches my shirt.

"Stay with me, please?"

I glance at the clock on the wall at the same time I hold her to my chest.

_Dammit. _

…

_Madge's POV_

4:45 p.m.

_The Broken Oar – A Sunny Spot for Shady People_.

I stand beneath the establishment's sign, reading it, checking Gale's note again to make sure that this is the right place. I wonder how Gale found out about the Broken Oar and if he knows how seedy it looks. I stand outside the battered wooden door covered in peeling green paint, debating if I should go in or not.

The trouble is that I fell into my old habit of showing up too early. I was always the first student in my seat every morning. It's kind of an alien feeling, though, having to be somewhere at a specific time. When did I last have a schedule? But here I am, fifteen minutes early. As usual.

I decide against going inside. If there really are shady people in this pub, then I'd rather wait till Gale's with me. I've had enough experience with jerks and weirdoes in my lifetime. A little walk around the level wouldn't hurt, though.

Level Four has its own subculture. At least, its own distinct flavor from other levels. It's mostly an underground "open" market filled with food stalls, restaurants, and other goods. I duck beneath a strand of garlic as I pass a stall loaded with spices of all colors. Reds, teals, bright saffron and something pink I've never heard of. Chalkboards list the prices of items in ration stamps and currency. I wonder where all this comes from? Level 11 has synthetic gardens and Level 10 has special ventilation systems for the livestock. But some of the goods down here can't have been produced by District 13.

My heart stops when a musty smell hits my nose. Not the usual stale air from the ventilation, but a good, wholesome dusty scent. It can only belong to one thing. Passing around a cart filled with wooden toys and another selling second-hand clothes, I come to a standstill before a cart of books. Trunks and bookshelves frame the car on either side, also laden with hardcovers and paperbacks.

"Can I help you?" an older gentleman asks kindly. He's dusting off some of the spines with an old rag.

I swallow back the tears in my throat. "Is it all right if I just look for a little bit?"

The man smiles and keeps cleaning. "Suit yourself."

The books are old, many with cracked and faded spines. The amount of books staggers me. How did anyone manage to get his hands on such a collection after the Dark Days when the book bans started in earnest? Before then, private collections were tolerated. Now, only men and women like my father, politicians and the extremely wealthy citizens (which narrows the population down to victors), manage to have any sort of library that the Capitol will overlook.

Some of the books are political treatises and histories, which are painfully outdated. I find a few cookbooks and children's stories. Poetry. Fiction.

_Sheet music. _

"All right, Miss?" the bookseller ask. His voice sounds far away.

Somehow I nod my head and smile weakly. I'd better go.

I wind my way back through the stalls and shoppers without really seeing anything, just thinking about how my heart jumped back like it's been jolted by electricity. Out of nowhere. Just looking at music.

In my old home, the music room belonged to me. Sometimes the only sound in the house for hours came from my fingers playing on the black and white keyboard. I have so many of those old songs memorized I don't even need the sheet music anymore.

I didn't have brothers or sisters to keep me company. Sometimes I had Hanna, but mostly I had music.

5:15 p.m.

I don't hesitate to enter the Broken Oar this time. Now I'm late. It doesn't take much looking to see that Gale isn't here yet, either. I realize that I have no idea if he's the kind of guy who's perpetually late or not. We have a lot to learn about each other.

Some men in black uniforms, who arrived ahead of me, seat themselves, so I follow suit. I choose an empty booth in the corner where I can keep an eye on the door.

A waitress pushes through the swinging kitchen doors and shoves bowls of soup in front of customers, then shuffles on to take orders at another table. Most of the restaurant reflects the battered, peeling door. I'm sitting at a pockmarked table with crude pictures cut into it with dull knives. Peanut shells litter the floor. But the bar looks pristine. Or maybe greatly loved, judging by the way the gargantuan bartender keeps wiping it down.

The waitress's raspy voice cuts through my observations. "Here's your coffee. Black like your soul."

I'm surprised by her rudeness and spot her across the room. I'm shocked to find that I recognize the man she's serving. The pilot who flew us from the Maysilee to the Cole. Quintus McFarlane. Captain McFarlane…Gale called him something else, but I don't remember. It couldn't be anyone else. Not with the green-tipped hair, lip studs, rings in his eyebrows. And with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, I see a tattoo, but can't make out the design.

The waitress sets the coffee down and moves just enough for me to see his face. His lips thin. "I've already laughed at that one," I hear him say in the same smooth voice.

The waitress stalks off. I'm getting the impression that she can only come and go in that mode.

5:35 p.m.

"Can I get you something to drink?" The waitress barks. Her tag says _Ruga_.

"Just some water for now, please," I answer sheepishly.

"Are you waiting for somebody?" she asks, shuffling the menus and bundles of silverware in her arms. It's clear from her expression that she's ready to kick me out for loitering.

"Yes, he'll be here soon."

5:45 p.m.

"Here's your water." About a tablespoon sloshes out when she puts the glass down in mid-stride to another table.

My stomach cramps with hunger. The smell of warm food doesn't help. I dip my finger in and swirl the liquid into patterns. Gale will get here soon.

6:00 p.m.

"Listen, honey, I'm losing money on this table," Ruga says. She isn't hostile. Much. There's a sliver of pity in her eyes, which tells me that she's been bailed on a few times, too.

"Ten more minutes." I murmur.

She walks away, muttering under her breath.

6: 30 p.m.

"Your date didn't show either." It's a statement.

I look up from the table where the water has since evaporated. "How did you know that?"

Quintus slides onto the other bench opposite me. "I recognize the look on your face." Then he points to his own. "I'm a regular."

"I've never been here before." I've never been stood up before. At least, not until I moved to the Underground. For some reason, I'd hate for him to think that this happens to me all the time.

The pilot shrugs, a fluid gesture on him. Then he holds out his hand to shake mine. He has a bat tattoo. "Quintus McFarlane, by the way. Pleased to meet you again."

I manage not to blurt out that I remember. There's no need to gush over him, but I'm not sure how much control I have over myself. "Madge Undersee."

"Ah, yes." He smiles, but doesn't say anything else. His white teeth make the napkins look dingy.

"It's ironic that we're both here tonight," I say to break the silence, and to distract him from how I'm ogling his lip ring. On a purely scientific level, I wonder what that would feel like…

His green eyes sparkle. Just a little. Green isn't my favorite color, but I think maybe it should be. "Yes, it is." He laughs softly. "Rejects' night out, eh?"

That has the desired effect of waking me from my stupor. I don't understand my reaction to Quintus. I'm in love with Gale, but something about the pilot makes my eyes want to cross. Gale does that to me too, though, when he isn't an irresponsible, promise-breaking jerk.

"You know, nursing free water won't win over the staff," he points out, swiveling my glass around in a trail of its own condensation. "If you're planning on doing this often, I suggest the coffee. It tastes like trolls feet, but it pacifies the gorgon." He jerks his head toward Ruga. "And it's the cheapest thing on the menu."

"Thanks for the tip," I reply. My ration stamps are tucked in my pocket and I saw someone else leave a few on a table, but I'm worried about spending too much. It's a new feeling, and not a good one.

I get the feeling that he understands.

"Back in a second," Quintus says. He slips off the seat and sails through the kitchen doors behind the gorgon. A bout of shouting occurs and then the pilot comes out with a tray with slices of chocolate cake and lipstick marks all over his face.

Quintus sets the tray down on the table and seats himself. He wipes off the marks with his thumb, looking abashed. "They always do that."

I can't help laughing because I assumed that he's the kind of guy who wouldn't mind. He smiles sheepishly. "Do you know them?" I ask.

"Oh, sure," he says, flourishing his hand. "Prisca's the old cook. Ruga the gorgon. Guinan the manager. They're all right, just a little hands-on."

I point at the dessert plates. "They pay you for kisses?"

He smirks. "No, I'm afraid the kisses are free. Guinan only recognizes one kind of currency." He pushes a plate toward me. "Anyway, this is on me."

Chocolate cake. A luxury. I don't know if I can accept. And Gale might still walk in at any minute. I glance at the doors, just in case.

Quintus pulls out a battered pocket watch covered in knobs. "6:55 p.m." He pushes a fork toward me. "I don't think you have to worry about your date walking in and getting the wrong impression."

He tucks in to his own piece and I realize something. Chocolate comfort food. I'm not the only one whose date bailed. If he's going out of his way to be nice to me, a stranger, it would be rude not to accept. And I could use some comfort food, too.

Halfway through the cake I start to feel a little sick. The sugar spikes. I take sip of the remaining water. The pilot's cake is gone, with not a speck left on his plate.

"I've gained some weight since I tried dating this girl," he says and pats his stomach. It doesn't show.

It's a painful question, but I ask it anyway. "Do you wait around for her a lot?"

He shrugs, but doesn't answer the question. To be honest, I wouldn't answer that question, either.

"Are you enjoying the Underground?" he asks instead.

I frown, because even thought it's only been two days, I'm already feeling discouraged. "It takes some getting used to."

"I remember feeling that way when I got here. Sometimes this place seems downright primitive. And it's never easy when you don't know a soul." Before I can reply, he grins and says, "You didn't care for my music on the Hobgoblin."

The Hobgoblin being his ship with the jaunty pinup. "You noticed?" I didn't think he paid any attention to us after takeoff.

Quintus reaches across the table and takes my hand. He turns it palm up, studying it. He runs a calloused, blunt-edged finger over my smooth, tapered one. My nails started growing out since I had to leave my clippers behind, but I've bitten them back. I'm not used to having them long. They get in the way.

"You are a musician," Quintus announces, releasing my hand. "I'm guessing the piano."

I nod. It's an easy enough observation. How many folks from Twelve have fingers as smooth and fine as mine? Not many. The miners have thick, scarred, filthy fingers. Merchant have their calluses, too. Few of them have time for seriously pursuing music. "You?" I ask.

"Guitar. I like the stereotype." He winks conspiratorially, like he's selling trade secrets. "And using it to woo the ladies.

I laugh, imagining him like the Pied Piper leading gullible girls away. "Why didn't you bring it tonight?"

Quintus glowers. "It doesn't work with this particular lady." He picks up a knife and smirks at his reflection. "As you can see."

"I guess not," I say. "Is she from the Capitol?"

"Decidedly not." Quintus frowns again and I'm guessing that fact might be a source of tension between him and this mystery girl. I can understand. "And you? Let me guess, tall, dark, brooding fellow. All eyebrows. _He_ liked my music."

"Yes," I gasp. "How did you know I'm with Gale?"

"You two had something going on when I picked you up." His eyes wander to something over my head and he grins slightly. "And I have my ways." Quintus purses his lips. "Now, why wouldn't he show, I wonder?" he muses out loud.

That seems like a personal question and one I don't really want to answer for myself, let alone discuss with someone I barely know. I look at the peanut shells on the floor instead of Quintus.

"He's busy." I shrug like it's no big deal and that I understand. I sort of do. Katniss and Haymitch, they're important. Whatever it is that keeping him must be very pressing. It just doesn't feel good to be the lesser priority. And he hasn't explained why I can't come with to see Katniss. I think maybe he forgets that either of them has any other friends sometimes.

Quintus startles me by rattling off a list of composers, changing the subject. "Arpagius Glitzfried or Honoratus Blinkerson?"

It takes me a second to realize that he's asking what kind of music I like. "I actually prefer Simo Simplex."

Quintus smiles politely. "Oh, I agree. But he's not popular at all in the Capitol. Citizens rage over Arpagius."

I can't help smiling back. This is the first time I've ever been able to admit to liking a composer to someone who knows who I'm talking about, and without feeling ashamed, since the only music writers we hear about are from the Capitol. I guess Quintus would know all about them, since that's where he was born. I wonder if he ever feels like the odd man out down here. Broken from the Capitol, but still _obviously_ retaining his distinct Capitol flavor.

My stomach wrenches painfully all of a sudden, like someone stuck in a fork and twisted. An actual, physical pang and I clutch my stomach. I swallow a gasp.

Quintus furrows his eyebrows in concern. "All right there?"

The pain recedes, clearing my mind. Here I am sitting with a Capitol man, discussing favorite Capitol composers like nothing has happened. Like my parents aren't charred to bits or my home destroyed or my friends in danger because the Capitol has set out to destroy _everything_.

I'm like a traitor or something, sitting here, happily talking away, eating _cake,_ of all things. I feel ashamed by my lack of bitterness and rage. If I were Gale, I'd probably call Quintus a tool and refuse his company. Instead I'm sitting here while Quintus looks at me with concern on his face.

He's friendly. It takes me a few moments, but I collect myself enough to figure one thing out. I can separate Quintus from the other citizens of the Capitol. He's here. He's helping. He didn't kill my parents. Calm down.

"How did you end up here anyway?" I ask, trying to move on from that strange emotional blip.

Quintus's eyebrows crinkle together in confusion and I realize that I've jumped ahead of him in the conversation, since he isn't privy to what's going on in my head. But he answers eventually.

"I'm not the first citizen to make a break for it, Madge," he says. "A few hear about Thirteen. Sometimes they're the children of contacts in the Capitol."

"Are you?"

"No," he says gravely. "I'm just a pilot that happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Do you hate the Capitol?" I ask. It comes out like a demand.

"Hate the Capitol?" Quintus repeats slowly. He sits up straighter, looking very composed. Something I'm not. "I don't hate the Capitol. I hate parts of what it represents and what it does. But there are good things, too. Knowledge, craftsmanship, technology...art."

Craftsmanship, technology, art…of killing. Part of me knows that I shouldn't take this out on Quintus, and he's saying what I know. That I can separate the good parts from the bad. But it still feels like a betrayal. "But you're fighting this war on our side?" I say.

"The Capitol needs to be purged. There are innocent lives to protect. Justice. I hope when this is over, her better qualities will still be there for us to enjoy."

Her better qualities. Hm. "Are you homesick?" I ask.

"Are you?" he rejoins, giving me a pointed look.

"I'm sorry, Quintus" I murmur, suddenly feeling ashamed. After all, he's been nothing but kind to me and I'm assuming that he doesn't have basic human feelings because he's from the Capitol. A reverse prejudice, I guess.

He holds up a hand. "It's okay, Madge. I've learned that it's easier for people to take out their anger at the ones who are closest to them in proximity." He smiles kindly. "You'll work it out."

The ogress makes an appearance at the foot of the table and takes the plates. "We're closing up soon," she says.

We rise from the table without saying me. Quintus throws down a few bills of real currency and walks me out the door.

"Can I walk you back?" he asks politely.

"That's all right. I'd like to think about a few things in private before I get back to the dorms." He nods with understanding. "Thanks for the cake, Quintus. I hope things work out for you."

"Sure. You too," he says, shaking my hand again. "Goodnight, Madge."

"Goodnight."

8:55 p.m.

We trudge off in opposite directions through the deserted market filled with closed up stalls.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed that bit of Mantus, because it's all you're going to get! Of course, the Broken Oar is a wink at my story The Great Escape. If you're looking for something fluffy and improbable, then check it out. Also, the composers' names are works of staggering genius. I know. :D_

_Ceylon, thanks for beta-ing. I appreciate it! _

List of OCs:

Allumina – a woman of District 13

Aster: Community Home girl, 15-16 yrs

Bartel: Bartender at the Broken Oar.

Doohan: Purser, the Maysilee

Guinan: Manager at the Broken Oar

Hanna: The Undersee's old housekeeper

Hester: Community Home dorm officer, 19-20 years old

Leo: Corporal, the Maysilee

Liquor: D12 man, real name is Sidler

Mallow: CH girl, 11 yrs

Nurse Chapel – works in the Underground Medical Ward

Pike: Captain, the Maysilee

Prisca: Cook at the Broken Oar

Quintus McFarlane – a god among men, pilot captain who will lead the rescue mission

Ruga the Ogress – Waitress at the Broken Oar

Sidler – Madge's attacker in Part I

Tansy: Community Home girl, 18 yrs

Water: D12 man, friend of Liquor

Various Awesome Composers


	7. Chapter 7

**PK and THG123** – thanks so much for leaving reviews. You're awesome.

**AN**: To avoid confusion, the italics used in the dorm scene are meant to denote whispering. Ceylon, thanks for beta! :D

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_

"_Wake up. Wake up, Madge."_

Tiny hands stroke my face and pat my head. I try to block the feel of them along with all the snoring and garbled sleep-talk, trying to tip head first into the numbing darkness of sleep.

"_Madge!_"

My now open eyes adjust to the semidarkness of the dorm, barely illuminated by nightlights, enough for me to make out the tiny face of a girl. She's standing over my bed, scratching her nose and staring at me. She's wearing her new-looking nightgown.

"_Posy?"_ I gasp quietly, in case I'm dreaming.

The little girl's dark face slivers into a toothy grin and she crawls into bed with me. Her head falls on the pillow next to mine and she pulls the covers all on her side. Just like old times.

"_How did you get down to the dorms, sweetie?" _I ask, brushing her dark hair out of her face_. "Does your mama know where you are?" _

"_Gale showed me_," she whispers through a yawn. "_You have to come with us."_

"_Says who?" _My heart hiccups at the sound of Gale's name. Any vestigial numbness evaporates. I feel my heart beat an angry pace in my ribcage.

Posy places her hand on my cheek and says solemnly, _"Gale wants you to come over and play. Right now. He's outside."_

I laugh quietly through my nose at the five-year-old translation of Gale's wishes. I'm torn between marching up to his quarters and giving him a piece of my mind to choke on or sending Posy out empty-handed so he can wallow in…whatever it is he'd wallow in.

"_Are you gonna come?" _

From a bed nearby, an older woman _shushes_ us. Figures. The one time I contribute any sort of noise after two horrible, sleepless nights of ragged breathing, groaning mattresses, and girls crying themselves to sleep…

Who am I kidding? I can't stand this dorm and tearing into Gale would be such a relief after all the doubt and disappointment and loneliness. I'll show him that I don't need him or his empty promises.

I sit up in bed and Posy follows suit. Reaching into the drawer below the mattress, I grab a shirt to throw on over my pajama top, not caring if I walk around in the striped bottoms. Spending a week in Rory's clothes makes me feel positively feminine and a little overdressed in anything else. After I put my shoes on, Posy takes my hand and leads me down the long rows of lumpy beds. I promise myself just to step out, tell Gale where he can get off, and then walk away with my head held high. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

The door slides open into the dimly light corridor. Gale slouches against the wall with his hands in the pockets of a grey coverall, staring at the shadows on the floor. He hears the door and looks up expectantly.

All my good, self-respecting intentions collapse like an emotional soufflé, into nothing, when his eyes meet mine. All I feel right now is relief and I see it mirrored in his. Gale looks more like himself than he did nearly three days ago with his messy hair and the five o'clock shadow creeping back over his face. My traitorous arms start to reach for him, but I have enough control physically, though not emotionally, to pull back.

If Gale notices my confusion, he doesn't show it. His face splits into a grin as his sister pulls me closer. "Good girl, Posy."

"There were lots of girls, but I remember what Madge looks like," Posy prattles. "I can see her hair when it's dark because it's light."

"That's right," he says.

"Like Peeta's," she continues.

Gale's eyes narrow. "Like _Prim's_," he corrects.

I intervene before Posy says anything that will trigger Gale's ire toward poor Peeta. "Shouldn't your sister be in bed, not pulling me out of mine?" I ask weakly, unable to control my voice, which should sound angry.

Gale stays pasted to the wall, arms folded, appraising me. His lips purse. "This is an emergency situation," he explains.

"I see."

He nods his head in the direction of the lifts and holds out a hand for Posy. She takes his and then she reaches for mine. We walk slowly with Posy between us. I feel his elbow connect with mine.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs when I look up at him. His eyes tell me that we'll talk more when we've put Posy to bed.

I reach inward for the hurt and anger I've felt but it's slipping away now that I can see him.

But not all the way.

Gale makes a big deal of letting Posy push the button, like it's the brightest part of their day. For Posy, it might truly be. There's a lot about little kids I don't know, not having much experience of them.

The doors slide open and Posy warns us not to step on the crack between the floor and the lift. Gale helps her count, pushing every button between One and Six. Fortunately, we're on Nine going up to Six, so we won't have to take all those stops. Unless Posy presses all the floor buttons, which she's trying to do. Gale comes up with a "creditable" excuse:

"Sorry, Posy," he says gravely. "I can't count higher than six and neither can you."

It's such a horrible, bald-faced lie, but Posy swallows it. She looks to me for help. "Can you teach us?"

I bite my lip to keep from groaning. "Gale knows how to count—"

Gale pulls me into a bear hug, and with the hand angled away from Posy's view, he covers my mouth. "I already had to ride up and down this thing twice with her as a bribe for getting you," he whispers in my ear.

"Poor you." I mutter frostily, after biting his hand. "I won't tell you how many times _I_ rode up and down this evening." He manages to look contrite. I push him off of me, remembering his impressionable sister's in here. Posy watches us grumpily with her nose wrinkled up like we're ruining her night. I suppose we are.

A chime lets us know we're on Six. Posy races ahead of us, through the door of their flat.

Hazelle's waiting up in her nightgown when we arrive. With her legs curled up beneath her in an armchair, she looks younger, more relaxed. She smiles knowingly and sets a book down on the coffee table. It never occurred to me that Hazelle liked books. Gale and Rory don't seem like the type to sit and read. Perhaps Vick? I wonder when Hazelle last had time to read? Maybe not since she graduated and got married. Women in Twelve, especially those from the Seam, tended to marry right out of school at eighteen.

"Make her a cup of tea, Gale," she says, and ushers Posy into their bedroom.

"Uh. Okay," he says to the bedroom door. He gives me a sidelong glance. "Do you want tea?"

"Yes."

"Do we have tea?" he looks around the tiny kitchen space with no sign of recognition.

I open the spice cabinet and pull out the tin of Earl Grey. He takes one look at the fancy silk filters and I can see him die a little on the inside. "Can you grab some mugs?"

Gale scratches the back of his neck. "Where are they?" he asks.

_For goodness sake, you don't even know your way around your kitchen yet? _"Nevermind."I get them myself. "You really haven't been around much, have you?"

"No."

Gale doesn't elaborate, just pulls the electric kettle over to the sink and fills it with water. Fine. I wait for him to begin the conversation. He dragged me here, after all.

Before the silence becomes too oppressive, Rory meanders in through the door, whistling an unrecognizable tune. He stops short when he sees us and turns red. "Guh." He clears his throat. "Hi, Madge."

"Rory."

"Where were you?" Gale demands, as though he hadn't just traipsed down to Level 9 himself, towing Posy along with him. "It's after midnight."

Rory leans back against the door, looking like a cornered animal. His eyes shoot to the boys' room like he's gauging whether or not he can get there before Gale stopped him. "Just walking around, Gale," he says, trying not to sound as cowed as he looks by his older brother. "There's no rule against that."

Gale leans forward, like a perched vulture. Albeit, a very handsome vulture. "Then how come you look guilty?"

Rory tugs at his collar and I can see the wheels turning in his mind. "I'm just surprised to see you up is all," he grumbles. Then his face takes on a mischievous glint. "With Madge." Rory grins. "You know, after you ditched her like three days in a row."

Gale blanches and takes a step back.

They say attack is the best form of defense, and Rory turned the table against his guilty older brother. Rory revels in it. Too much. "Personally, _I'm _really happy to see you, Madge. It's just not the same when you aren't around…" Gale's eyebrows knit together like ominous storm clouds rolling in. I see Rory's short life flash before my eyes. "…_some_ of us appreciate you more than others. Bristel told me just this afternoon how he…"

I never find out what Bristel may or may not have told Rory because Gale intercedes, frogmarching Rory to their bedroom, depositing the miscreant and shutting the door.

"I'm going to kill that kid," Gale gripes at the door. "I should have done it when he took out the tesserae."

The kettle whistles. "Killing Rory for not wanting him to get killed makes perfect sense," I reply wryly while I fill the mugs with boiling water.

"Huh," he grunts peevishly from the living room. "He's up to something."

"Calm down and drink your tea," I order, handing him a mug as I join him. "After all, Rory's almost thirteen. You can't blame him for not wanting to tell you all the details of his life and for making his own decisions."

"He has no right bringing up – "

"You cornered him, Gale. What else was he supposed to do?" I look at the barren grey walls and test the temperature of my tea with my fingertip. "It's not his fault you're a promise-breaking jerk. You left yourself wide open on that one."

Gale starts to reply, but gives up. He gulps the hot tea and doesn't seem to feel it burning his tongue.

"So, that's what you think of me?" he asks, staring at the same patch of wall.

"Unless you can convince me otherwise."

Silence.

He shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Madge. I've messed up a lot lately," he says to his mug.

"Where have you been?" I murmur.

"With Katniss mostly," he quietly admits.

"Mostly?"

"And with Haymitch."

"Pleasant company."

Gale takes my arm and leads me to the couch. He sets his mug down and faces me. "I don't mean to neglect you for Katniss; it's just that out of the two of you, you're the stronger one right now. It's not fair, but I don't know what else to do." His expression is bleakly sincere.

He thinks I'm stronger than Katniss? I'd never in a million ears believe that of myself.

"Is that an excuse, Gale?" I ask. "Do you want to shuffle all these relationships?" I pause to gather my thoughts. "I mean, I don't really know how I'm supposed to interpret your actions. If you're done with me because Katniss is alive, then—"

His head snaps back like I've slapped him. "You aren't a placeholder for Katniss."

"It feels like it. Who did you choose tonight?"

Gale rubs his face with his hands, then says, "Madge, if I wanted to break things off, I'd have the decency to tell you. I wouldn't hide."

"Yes, you're famous for your candor," I snipe. "Your courtesy, however, could use some work."

"I –" he starts to defend himself, but caves in. "You're right."

Watching his increasing frustration feels less gratifying than I thought it would.

My own mug joins his on the coffee table. "Maybe you should explain what happened today…er, yesterday."

Gale nods and takes a deep breath. "I meant to spend the day with you, but I received a summons from Haymitch. I've been trying to speak to him, Madge. It was important. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I had to take it. The conversation took a lot longer than I thought and involved more people than I planned. By the time we finished, it was already the afternoon. I needed to update Katniss, but I thought I'd have the evening free, so I sent you the message on my way to see her."

"So what went wrong then?"

"Well." He stretches his arm over the back of the couch. "I had to tell Katniss that Peeta is alive."

"He is?" I gasp. "They know for sure? Haymitch told me they had no idea."

He nods. "Our contacts sent photographic evidence of him in the Capitol."

"Katniss must be so relieved!" I breathe. _I _feel relieved. "They must be getting ready to rescue him at any moment now—"

Gale looks at me like antlers are sprouting from my head. "She had a _meltdown_."

"A meltdown? That doesn't make sense. Isn't this good news?" I ask. "I mean…unless she…" _already has the one she wants._

Gale seems to read my thoughts and his face darkens. "She's not in love with me, Madge, and I'm not in love with her. Let's get that straight. It's Peeta she wants," he states crisply so I can't mishear him. I'm too taken aback to say anything.

Gale's eyes harden more. "As for good news, yes and no. He's alive, which is good, but who knows what they're doing or saying to him?"

Oh. I hadn't thought of that. I suppose I can see why Katniss would react badly, knowing he's alive and vulnerable. She's afraid for his safety and there's nothing she can do to help him.

"You don't think they'd…you know…" I can't bring myself to say _torture. _The word sticks in my throat.

His eyes are unrelenting in their certainty. "Absolutely. They host the _Hunger Games_, Madge. And look what they did to our home. The square alone…" his voice drops off. Of course. You'd think I'd have a better understanding of human nature after all we've been through, but it's still hard for me to believe that out there someone's making these decisions – that at some point someone doesn't say that they're going too far.

My hand finds Gales. I wonder if he's still haunted by the images of the massacred men, women and children who were trying to escape the Peacekeepers. I didn't see the bodies, but I knew families that were in the square, like the children who played in the fruit stall while their mother helped customers.

The reality and danger of our situation neutralizes the tension and distrust between Gale and I. It's hard to feel upset about a failed date when I think of what good, loyal Peeta must be suffering.

Gale breaks the silence. "She's in a bad way, Madge. I couldn't leave her alone like that," he explains.

Of course not. I feel like a fool for wasting so much energy feeling betrayed and resentful. What else was Gale supposed to do? What would I do in his position? _Sorry, Katniss, I have a date. Here's a tissue. Feel better._

"I understand, Gale."

"I'm sorry I didn't find some way to tell you that I couldn't make it," he apologizes.

"I forgive you. And you know," I say, "you could have asked for my help, too."

"I don't know…"

"Katniss and I _are_ friends," I remind him.

He considers this, and I'm about to tell him that it's not his decision when he says, "Well, she's starting to turn. Who knows? In a day or two she'll be back on her feet. Once she can get her hands on a project she'll start to feel better. Like she has some control."

I nod. "She doesn't sit well."

"No."

"Gale, it would help if I didn't feel so disconnected from everything. I can help you and the Everdeens. If Prim can handle Katniss's episodes, then I think I can." He looks like he's about to protest. "I know something about grief, too, Gale. And then you and I can be together _and_ support Katniss. And it's not like I have family to worry about."

That seems to hit home. "We'll go tomorrow morning, if you want," he says. "Just so you know…I haven't told her anything." He scrunches the hair at the nape of his neck.

My eyebrow arches. "About us? Why am I not surprised?"

Gale grimaces. "It's not what you think –"

"Is it because you're embarrassed or hoping to muscle with Peeta out of the way?" I ask indifferently, though I'm laughing at him in my head.

He glowers at me, looking like a ruffled crow. "I already told you – "

"I'm teasing you, Gale," I say. "It would be difficult to find an appropriate time to slip that into your conversation with Katniss, when she's under so much pressure."

Gale huffs. It reminds me of all the times Bristel pokes fun at him. "We'll tell her eventually," he says sourly.

"Maybe she'll guess," I quip.

Gale snorts. "Yeah. Because she's about as observant as a mole in sunlight."

"That's not fair," I say, coming to her defense. "Katniss is very observant. She saved me from sitting in poison ivy once."

A pained expression passes over his face. "Madge," he says patiently. "A baby can spot poison ivy without trying particularly hard. Face it. Katniss can't read people to save her life…. Literally."

I cross my arms against the indirect slight. "She's observant when she's hunting."

"I agree," he placates, holding up his hands. "When she's hunting."

"Poison ivy was just a bad example," I huff, scooting away from him. So what if I didn't know it was poison ivy in the woods outside of Twelve when she took me? How would I know anyway? That was my first trip beyond the fence. And _I_ am more observant than a baby.

Gale asks a question, but I'm too lost in my own fuming over his low opinion of my wilderness skills to hear. I have to ask him to repeat it.

"How long did you wait at the restaurant?"

"You mean the seedy bar?" I grouse. "About four hours."

He grimaces. "That long?"

"I wouldn't have stayed that long if Quintus hadn't joined me. The last three hours just flew by after that."

Gale's eyes spark. "Quintus?" he sputters.

"You remember the pilot."

"Oh, I remember," he gripes. His eyes lose focus while he thinks about something. "What was he doing there?" he mutters to himself.

I shrug. "I don't know, but I think he's my boyfriend now," I say nonchalantly.

"What?" Gale sputters more.

"I'm just joking, Gale." He glares at me, his short temper triggered. "You deserve it after ditching me. He was supposed to be on a date too, but the girl didn't show. He told me himself."

Gale rolls his eyes. "You're so naïve."

"_I'm naïve?" _I snap.

"Yeah, I'm sure he just came over for a friendly chat. He probably told you that story so you'd feel sorry for him." He throws himself against the back of the couch. "How do you know he wasn't stalking you when you're so blinded by his perpetually tight pants?"

"Gale, listen to yourself. Guys like Quintus don't need to _stalk_ girls," I point out.

"Seducing you, then."

I bristle with irritation. "He looked disappointed, not…seductive or creepy. I _do _know what creeps are like, after all. And I think Quintus really likes this girl. He keeps asking her out and waiting for her, but she never comes. It's tragic and romantic." At least, it is when it happens to somebody else.

"Shouldn't the sucker get the message by now?" Gale snipes. "How many times does she have to ignore him before he gets the picture?"

"Maybe she just keeps running late?" I retort. "Or is there a message you're trying to send me?"

"Of course not," Gale blusters, finally seeing the parallel. "I just don't like …"

"You have no right to be mad, Gale. You _ditched_ me. In fact, you owe Quintus for being a considerate gentleman." Gale's lips curl in loathing, but I decide to rub it in a little more. "In fact, you can congratulate yourself for sending me to the one place in this hole where I'd meet someone I semi-know," I say. "How did you even find out about the Broken Oar, anyway?"

Gale looks he'd rather swallow worms than answer, but he does. "Quintus told me about it. When I asked him for a reference."

"_You_ asked _him_?" That makes the situation, and Gale's jealousy, all the more laughable. And I do laugh. Hard.

Gale glowers on his side of the couch. "Gale, you know I don't blame you for staying with Katniss. But honestly, if you aren't going to show up for your own date, then you can't blame some other guy for stepping in." That being said, I make myself comfortable and wait for his temper to ride itself out. I pick up Hazelle's book from the table and flip through the table of content.

Gale clears his throat. I turn to the first chapter.

_My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down._

"Madge?"

"Hmm?"

_It was seventy five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt - sleeve-less, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka._

He plucks the book from my hands and tosses it to the floor.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he says.

"I forgive you," I reply. "May I have the book back?"

Gale licks his ringless bottom lip. "No." He slides over the last centimeters of couch between us. "Are we done apologizing now?"

"You could apologize for insulting Quintus's pants," I say as I'm crowded into the corner of the armrest.

His finger traces my shirt collar, making me shiver. "Not a chance."

"Or for taking away my book," I manage as his breath tickles throat. I wait for his lips to graze over that troublesome spot just below my ear, but then he's gone.

He sits back with his nose screwed up in the air. "You'd rather read?"

I answer by grabbing the lapel of his coverall and pulling him so close our noses brush. He smells like pine needles and…gun powder?

"Gale—"

He interprets the sound of his name as an invitation. We sink into the cushions. It's like we're back in the long grass. We're beside the river. Our lips show us what we haven't said tonight, _I miss you. _My fingers brush his hair and soothe the ridges of his back. Gale's hand skims below my knee, which seems odd until his fingers caress the tender skin through the thin fabric of my pajamas. Who knew? My body liquefies. He smiles at my garbled murmurs of appreciation and tries for my ear again.

_Ouch_.

Gale sits up. "What is it?" he asks huskily.

I lean back and rub my scratched cheek. "Your face feels like sandpaper."

"Sorry. I feel naked without a beard," he murmurs. "You don't like it?"

"No, I missed your beard. It just hurts a little." I press my hand against his chest when he leans in again. Much as I would like to stay, it's far too late and the couch is far too comfortable. "I should probably go, Gale." I try to stand, but he holds my arm.

"Stay."

"But the codes…"

"Forget the codes. I'm paying for this place now; I can decide who comes or goes," he grouses.

I pause. "You're paying for it? How?" I think about the ration stamps that I have to keep with me at all times me now because two have been stolen already. Those don't pay for living quarters.

His face goes slack, like he said more than he meant to. The springs _ping_ softly as he drags himself away. He picks up the book from the floor and sets it back on the coffee table.

"Madge, there's something else I should tell you."

* * *

**TBC**

_AN: Boy, Madge is a saint and Gale is one lucky SOB to have her. Thanks for reading! _

_An2: Beardy Gale Redux! *squee!*_

_An3: The quoted text belongs to Stephanie Meyer. She can keep Twilight and all her passive verbs.  
_


	8. Chapter 8

Christiana Greene, PK, THG123, and other anonymous persons: Thanks for leaving reviews! I'm always happy to hear from you.

Also, many thanks to all of you who nominated my stories for the 2010 Hunger Games Fic awards. I appreciate your support and I'm happy that so many of you have enjoyed Gale and Madge. Results are forthcoming. (Maybe?)

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_

"You…enlisted," I repeat woodenly, staring off into the shadowy dimness of the Hawthornes' living room.

"Yeah. It's not a difficult mission, Madge." Gale shrugs. "We're just going in, yanking Peeta and a few others, and hightailing it out of there."

"Who's _we_?"

"Haymitch, Finnick Odair, _your_ Quintus McFarlane, and a woman named Nevada," he lists. "We're a pretty slick team, what with the Capitol know-how and brawn. Nothing to worry about."

Gale's words of assurance hang in the tension-filled space between us like a bad radio transmission. I barely register his veiled ribbing about Quintus. We've separated ourselves to the farthest antipodes of the couch in direct contrast to our earlier position when Gale sandwiched me to the cushion and dropped the bomb, _there's something else I should tell you_.

Whoever came up with that phrase should be hanged.

I remember thinking once that there's a thin line between enthusiasm and lunacy. That was the same moment I came to regret informing Gale that a rebel movement existed, because I knew he'd have to have a hand in it. And that scared me, down by the river when I saw his eyes light up as I revealed Madge the paper-pushing rebel. Hell, it still scares me to death because I realized I'd never be able to rein him in if he stepped one toe into the resistance's circle.

"Madge?" Gale asks uncertainly after a prolonged silence.

I lift my head from where it's resting on my fist. The coppery taste of blood flavors my mouth where I've been biting the inside of my cheek.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid," I tell him. "You could get hurt."

"I'll take care of myself," Gale says with his usual bravado. He looks at me, sidelong. "Don't you want Peeta rescued? I got the impression you were rooting for him."

Who wouldn't root for Peeta? He's one of the best men I know. And of course I want him saved - I'm relieved that they're planning a rescue. Not just for Katniss, but because he deserves it. But...but..."Is there some other way? Why do you have to go?"

"Just how it is, Madge."

I don't buy it…and maybe that's what else bothers me about this situation. I don't know how to say it without sounding incredibly selfish, but either I'm a part of this family or I'm not. And if I am, then I need to be included. I can get over Gale choosing to spend time with his ailing friend over me. He's right, I am stronger right now. But I'm slowly starting to realize that Gale doesn't understand that his actions have consequences that affect his family and me, as well as himself.

"There's something else, isn't there?" he asks, breaking into my thoughts. "Let's have it."

I shift uncomfortably on the cushion, tucking my legs up under my chin. "You didn't ask me," I say with a voice as flat and thin as the old bottles of club soda in Haymitch's old mansion.

Gale's eyebrows pucker together and he frowns. "Ask you?" he rasps, sounding affronted.

"Not for permission, I don't mean that," I say quickly, padding his fragile male ego. "I meant, you didn't ask me what I thought or how I felt about you becoming a rebel soldier before you made the decision. Did you think of me at all before you rushed into this?"

"Of course I did," Gale grouses. "I'm always thinking about you and my family. That's my job. But it doesn't make a difference," he says to the two fists in his lap. "I'm going."

It's so typical of him I almost laugh. Almost.

"Gale, you aren't single anymore," I continue, trying for that calm, neutral tone my father so often used. "Your decisions don't just affect you. I might feel a little bit better if I had a share in the dialogue."

"I know that this affects you," he grouses, furiously scratching the side of his head. "You think I don't know that?"

Gale repeats again how he's acting in Katniss's stead. How unstable and unhappy she is, and how much she needs Peeta. He's already committed. Too late to back out now. They'll train him the best they can.

"So why bother talking about every little thing when nothing's going to change?" Gale finishes in a monotone voice.

"I don't know…respect?" I snap. I would have appreciated a chance to try and talk him out of it, even if it didn't work on him. "You're taking away my ability to engage with you when you don't share important choices like this one. I mean, how powerless would you feel if I decided to do something similar and didn't tell you? Maybe I'll become a pilot all of a sudden and hop in a fighter plane. It's a noble cause, the rebellion, so why not? Are you telling me you wouldn't be a little upset that I didn't talk to you about it?"

Gale shakes his head. "That's different."

"How?" I demand.

"You don't know anything about hovercrafts," he shoots back.

"And you've never used a gun! Nor have you been to the Capitol." And what I am too tactful to bring up: the way he threw up after he killed Liquor. Gale wears a mask of control and indifference, but I don't know if he really has it in him to kill without it damaging him. He can say what he likes – he's not ready to raze his way through the Capitol.

"I don't need to be familiar with the Capitol when I've got Haymitch, Finnick, and Quintus tagging along," he points out curtly. "And I can learn to use a gun a hell of a lot faster than you can learn to fly a hovercraft."

I take a deep breath, slowly, concentrating on the feel of my lungs contracting and expanding like little balloons. At three in the morning it's difficult to maintain a thread of patience. I can imagine the triple-play length of yarn held taut by a weight, the weave fraying apart and each thread snapping one by one.

"You're missing the point, Gale," I say, trying to rub out the tension headache forming. "I want to be included when you make decisions like this." Gale closes his eyes and turns his head away. "Are you falling asleep when I'm talking to you?"

"How can I when you're screeching in my ears like Mrs. Mellark?" he mutters angrily.

It feels like he slapped me and I gape at him. My heart pounds in my chest already from the arguing, but now it feels like he's stuck one of his arrows into it. I'm not nagging him, not the way that woman used to dig into her husband in front of customers. Mrs. Mellark was famous in the district for behaving like a fishmonger's wife. I'm stunned that Gale thinks I behave anything like her and I'm hurt that he isn't listening to my concerns.

Without a word, I grab our dirty teacups and duck into the kitchen, away from Gale, and busy myself by washing them out before I say something I'll regret when I'm rested and reasonable. I don't bother turning on the light, since the last thing I want is for Gale to get a better look at me. This is the first big blowout we've had since I screamed at him for not abandoning my parents. We've come a long way from that _cold war_ relationship we had back in Twelve, but it still looks like we can be nasty fighters.

The warm tap water feels good against my chilled skin, at least. When the cups are clean and drying in the rack, I lean over the sink and just stand quietly in the dark for a moment, composing myself. Gale's soft footfalls carry into the kitchen. The trim around the door creaks slightly when he rests his upper body against it. I feel his eyes on me. I close mine.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," he apologizes. "I'm not used to having anyone question my decisions so much."

Hanna called fights like this _growing_ _pains_ when she gossiped about her married children to me while I did my homework in the kitchen after school. Learning to fit somebody else into your life is hard work. But necessary work. That's what she said.

"You're going to have to get used to it," I murmur.

"I'm seeing that," he replies. "And I get it. You're worried. I didn't include you. I'm sorry. Right now there isn't time for indecision. An opportunity is coming to save Peeta and I have to jump on it."

"I don't know if I should—I don't—what am I supposed to do?" I jump back into the earlier argument. There's a tremor in my voice and I hate it. "It doesn't make sense. I don't understand why Haymitch would allow you to go when your space could be filled by a trained soldier," I say. "And you don't even like Peeta. Your face turns purple at the mere mention of his name."

"No it doesn't," Gale grumbles. "Sure, he's not my favorite…person, but Madge, everyone in leadership is interested in Peeta because of his connection to the Mockingjay – Katniss. Someone needs to go who's interested in saving Peeta for the hell of it. If something went wrong that risks the rebellion or the Underground, who's going to stop them from pulling out before saving him? As long as they have Katniss, he's not that important. Heavensbee and Haymitch are only trying to make her happy, but they aren't going to keep that up forever."

"That's a very noble speech for a guy who frequently calls Peeta the 'Dough Boy'."

Gale crosses his arms. I can see the muscles bunching as his body tenses with his mood. "I can't believe you, Madge. You were part of this rebellion before I even knew it existed. I thought you'd be more supportive."

"What if you get killed?" I plead.

"I won't."

"You won't?" I ask, laughing bitterly. I try to control the trembling in my lips. "So what? You're God now? I'm not prepared to lose everything, Gale. Not again."

Gale crosses over to the sink. His warm hands cup my shoulders, making me turn toward the dark outline of his body. "I made a promise that I have to keep."

"And after?" I ask, staring at the buttons on his clothes. "Will you be done?"

Gale's dark eyes bore into mine. "What good is it if I sit down here and hide?" he asks steadily. "I might as well be skulking around in the mines back home for all the good it'll do. You took risks once for this rebellion, and I bet you didn't ask for your father's permission first."

No. I didn't. But I wasn't playing with guns. And look what the rebellion's cost me. It didn't save my family. It didn't save Darius. And now Haymitch has willingly accepted the help of the one person I'm beginning to love the most. It's not that I don't want to help anymore...I just...I don't know.

"Now it's my turn, Madge," he says. "Everything's going to be fine."

The sharp pull on my stomach and the tingling along my spine tell me otherwise. It won't be fine. I can feel it won't.

"I feel like something horrible's about to happen," I murmur.

Gale frowns thoughtfully. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about stuff like this in the dark," he says, gently drawing me back toward the living room. "Come on, I can barely keep my eyes open." He yawns for emphasis.

We're not done with this, but neither one of us has the energy to keep up the argument. And if we did, it's only bound to get messier. I sink onto the couch and sit with my head in my hands. He offers to stay out here with me instead of retreating to his room where, honestly, he'd probably find some relief.

It's a strange feeling, to be this angry with someone and love him at the same time, torn between shaking him and holding him. I still need him. I guess that's why I don't give him the cold shoulder and run back to my empty bed in the dorm. Gale's long legs spill over the armrest and off the side of the couch as he reclines on his back with an arm tucked under his head. I lower myself on top of his torso, laying my head over his beating heart. He murmurs something about grabbing a blanket for me, but I wrap my arms around his chest and pretend I don't hear. He's fast asleep in a blink anyway.

I envy his luck. Although I'm sapped of energy, closing my eyes doesn't keep my anxious thoughts from spooling through my head as the blue light on an electric clock blinks away the three quarters of an hour.

This isn't working.

Gale's sleeping like a dead man, wafting strands of my hair with his steady breathing. The buttons of his shirt dig painfully into my breastbone. I don't want to move away from him, but I need to. The couch springs creak when I shift my position over his body till I'm lying wedged between his torso and the back of the couch.

_He's a Mockingjay soldier_.

I have to prepare myself for more than a shredded back. Bullet holes. Knives. Broken bones. Fire? My arm tightens around his waist, as though I could anchor both of us to this couch and he'd never have to leave for this rescue mission.

And the worst part is that I'm the one being selfish in this scenario. Who else in this convalescing sewer gets to keep all their loved ones safe? It's like the people of Thirteen are bred for one purpose alone, to man the rebellion. And now that we've escaped the firebombing – what – that exempts us from further harm? I can expect Gale to kick back and relax? But I didn't lie when I said I can't lose everything again.

And it's not just any mission. He's going to save Peeta, I argue with myself. And I promised to help him with Katniss. We don't _get_ to be done.

And then comes the feeling. It's like nausea deep down in my bones, like the marrow's liquefied into sickness and poisoning the rest of me. I've never felt this kind of fear. This impending doom.

I have to shake it. I'm the sort of girl who feels better when I can sit quietly and sort things out in my mind, but right now my thoughts run in useless circles.

I need to move. And there's one place I might find some relief – and maybe a chance to stop this train wreck.

I find the energy to push myself up. Gale must be exhausted because my most careful attempt to get off the couch, over his body, is still clumsy at best. But even almost falling on him doesn't wake him up. I sort of feel sorry for arguing with him for so long.

I stretch out when I'm back on my feet and try to comb my hair through my fingers. The boys' room door cracks open and Vick stumbles out with his hair askew and no shirt on. He scratches his stomach in a half-asleep zombie sort of way. He's halfway to the bathroom when he notices me and startles.

"Good morning, Vick."

He looks at Gale sleeping on the couch.

"Are you staying here?" he mumbles.

I shake my head. "I need to go actually," I say. "When Gale wakes up will you tell him I've gone to see Katniss?"

Vick nods his head and looks uncertainly at the clock. He's wondering who in their right mind would go visiting anyone at this hour.

He might be right. Katniss may well be asleep. But my visit's been long overdue.

* * *

**TBC**

AN: Sorry this is so short, but I'm starting to feel overwhelmed with finishing this story before MJ. Er, I don't think it's going to happen. But I'm trying and will be publishing shorter chapters to keep the crazies from setting in. Thanks for reading! And thank you, Ceylon, for beta!


	9. Chapter 9

PK and Wawabang: Tausend dank!

**AN**: The following conversation chapter alludes heavily to my story _Repaid. _While I don't think it's necessary to have read it to understand this chapter, it might help you understand why the ending is the way it is. :D

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_

I close the Hawthorne's door carefully behind me and lean against the cool surface for a moment to steady myself. It's odd that, after wanting to see Gale so badly, I'm now slinking away. Of course, the reason is to see Katniss. But somewhere niggling around in my head, I know that this is a protective measure. I need distance.

The bone-penetrating fear from the knowledge that Gale's signed up with the Mockingjay forces, it's like watching him willingly run back through the fence around burning District 12 while the planes drop incendiaries overhead.

Which is pretty much what he did in order to rescue me.

So did I have the right to ask him to stay here with me earlier? No.

I wonder what Gale would have thought two months ago if someone told him he'd risk his life _at_ _least_ _twice_ for merchant brats. He'd be more inclined to sucker punch the informant than laugh, I bet. At least that's how I remember Gale when we lived in Twelve. He's changed since then.

_All the more reason to encourage him rather than beg him to stay_. The conviction frustrates me, though. I push off the door and scurry down the corridor in a hurry to outpace my conscience.

The unexpected sight of a squat, wrinkly man just a few feet around the corner makes me jump. He's standing atop a ladder changing the long, thin lightbulbs in the ceiling. He looks equally startled to see me, but politely doffs his cap. The tag on his coverall reads _Ernie_.

"Morning, miss," he greets. His voice has a deep, guttural sound, like gravel. But the man has a kind, grandfatherly face that puts me at ease.

"Good morning to you," I reply and hurry toward the lifts before Gale realizes I'm gone.

I take an empty lift up to Level 3. The medical ward shares this floor with the gigantic server room, which is the technological center of the Underground, and the library. Unlike the book stall on Level 4, this library mostly contains manuals rather than novels or music books. Disappointing.

When the lift doors retract on the desired floor, I step out and look either way before spotting a placard with directionals indicating that I'm to veer left. A short walk down, two heavy metal doors stand sentinel below a rectangular glass windowpane with the words MEDICAL WARD painted across it in bold, san-serif. I push through into what looks like a waiting and reception room. Another set of double doors stands directly opposite of the ones I just entered through. To the left of the doors, nurses sit at a desk or wander about pulling out files or organizing boxes within the nurses' station. They're laughing over something one of the nurses said. Elsewhere, a few men and women sit scattered throughout square clusters of uncomfortable-looking couches and chairs, which are centered around chipped coffee tables littered with the occasional forgotten paper cup or pamphlets about communicable diseases.

I carefully tread past the sitting area toward the desk, slowing as I go because the nurses are not paying attention and I feel awkward interrupting them.

The awkwardness grows as I overhear their conversation:

A nurse with an open file in her hand casts a critical glance at her coworker from beneath thick, mousy eyebrows. "I think it's sweet that he spends so much time with Katniss."

"Well, I'm casting a vote for the poor girl he's stringing along," says the nurse at the desk. She stirs a cup of coffee, then gets her fingers caught in her massive blonde beehive hairdo. "I've lost count of how many messages he made me send out."

"Chapel," replies the eyebrow nurse, "he spent the night in Katniss's room. _Honestly_."

"She always likes to root for the underdog, Abbey," pipes in a third nurse with candy apple hair.

"Nurse Temple heard that he's her cousin," beehive nurse points out.

Eyebrows won't relent in the defense of her one true pairing. "Mrs. Everdeen denied that right away and _she _seems to think that Katniss and Gale have an _understanding_."

_A what?_ My ears feel like they could split from the heat of my blush. I can feel the color begin somewhere below my neck and all the way up to my hairline.

I clear my throat, eager to end the gossip session as quickly as possible and get away. "Excuse me?"

The nurse with the beehive hair, Nurse Chapel, swivels around in her desk chair to face me. Her eyes flick from my face to the clock, as though she wonders what I could possibly be doing here in the wee hours of the morning.

"Can I help you, dear?" she asks sweetly.

"I'd like to see Katniss Everdeen, please."

Nurse Chapel startles, then blushes, knowing that surely I've overheard their careless conversation. "Oh! Well, eh," she stammers. "I'm afraid visitors to Ms. Everdeen are restricted," she tells me with a sympathetic smile. "And she's supposed to be resting…it's 4:30 in the morning."

Standing up a little straighter, I smooth my face into the stoic look of authority I've seen my father use when he'd have to meet with Cray. "It's all right. Mr. Abernathy sent me," I fabricate.

Her penciled-on eyebrows lift toward her teased hairline. "Who?"

"Um, H-Haymitch?" Who? Her question shakes me out of my authoritative persona for a moment.

"Oh!" she cries, her face finally registering recognition. "Oh. Haymitch." Nurse Chapel starts shuffling random papers in a distracted manner. "Well…I suppose. But you'll have to fill out a visitor form first."

I'm grateful that my ploy worked, yet it feels surreal to think of Haymitch as an authority figure down here, when he's always been considered an oaf back home.

The nurse hands me a clipboard. I whisper my thanks and proceed to fill it out in front of her. My hand shakes with the anticipation running through my veins as I fully realize how close I am to seeing Katniss with my own eyes for the first time since the reaping. Why did I wait so long?

Nurse Chapel accepts the completed paperwork. I watch the color rise on her face a second time as she reads my name and recognizes it from the "innumerable" messages she's sent to me from Gale. She looks up sheepishly and mumbles Katniss's room number, pressing the button that releases the security doors.

A wall of antiseptic-scented air makes me feel woozy as I start down the hallway, looking at all the numbered doors. My lungs are reluctant to pull chemical-enriched oxygen in. The ventilation's usually on the stale side on every other floor, but I feel this is worse.

I pass an empty gurney and hear soft babbling farther down the hall. Otherwise, the wing seems completely deserted. The overhead lights reflect off the waxed floors and the smooth plastic facades of the medical wing. It hurts my eyes. With all the overlay, it's hard to remember that we're living in huge rock catacombs rather than in a hovercraft.

I hesitate at the threshold of room 306, not really sure what I'm expecting to find within.

I poke my head in the unmarked door. The other rooms have nameplates for patients. They must not want her location to be obvious. A small table lamp creates a soft halo of light near a bed, instantly drawing my eyes that way. I suck in a breath because she looks…so normal.

Katniss wears the same drab outfits that the rest of us have been given, though she hardly fills them. She didn't bother donning the pajama pants we've been given, the ones I'm currently wearing. Katniss plated her long black hair into her usual braid, which hangs over her shoulder. Her cheeks look pastier, more sunken than I remember, but on the whole, she's _all _Katniss. Every detail from the anxious crease in her forehead to the constant downward slant of her lips.

Katniss sits stock still with her knees pressed up under her chin, while she fixates on a photo lying on the blue knit covers in front of her feet. Maybe the one Gale gave her of Peeta?

"Katniss?" I whisper, not wanting to startle her too badly. It takes a couple tries before her face squinches up and she realizes that she hears something. Odd of her not to notice with her hunter instincts. She must be very absorbed in the photo. Her eyes find the source of the sound, which is me, standing in the doorway and she blinks a few times.

She shakes her head bemusedly, then must have decided that I'm the real thing. "Madge?" she gasps.

It's a testament to how quiet the hospital wing is that I can hear her. I smile. "Can I come in?"

Katniss swings her legs over the side of the bed and she's at the door with her wasted arms around my neck before I can blink. I recoil at first, until I realize she's hugging me.

"I didn't know you escaped Twelve," she rasps.

I feel my throat constrict as a dozen different emotions rush over me. Gratitude that she's alive. Sorrow for her loss. Tenderness toward this rare display of affection on her part. The unacknowledged loneliness of not having another girl my age to talk to. The sadness of coming in contact with another person from home. I wrap my arms around her thin body and hug her back.

"How are you feeling?" I manage to choke out.

Katniss shakes her head against my shoulder. Not a safe question. I try another.

"Gale didn't even tell you I'm alive?"

"Gale?" Katniss lets go and steps back a little. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Does he know you're in the Underground?" she asks.

I blink at her, realizing I have no idea what Gale has actually said about me. Nothing at all, from the sounds of it, which seems careless as I am Katniss's friend – surely mentioning that I'm alive would do more good than harm. Maybe he thought he'd have to explain our relationship in more detail if he did?

Well, that was a wasted effort. I'm here to set the record straight. I've only ever kept one secret from Katniss, which was my attraction for her best friend. And I held my tongue because I believed she was in love with him…and knew he was in love with her. It's different now. If Gale's going to follow through with this scheme to rescue Peeta for Katniss, then it's only fair for Katniss to know how things lie with the four of us.

I take a deep breath and say, "Really? Gale helped me escape from Twelve. We arrived here together."

"He did?" Katniss still looks confused. "Gale didn't tell me anything. He hasn't said much about the firebombing." She paces back to the bed, with her arm wrapped around her waist and the fingers of her other hand gently tapping her lips. She slowly rounds on me. "So…you were together when it happened?" She says it like it's the very last thing she expects, but can't make sense of any other possibility.

I shake my head and close the door behind me so I don't have to see her face. "He had to run across town to get to my house. The planes were already bombing the Seam."

"Wait," Katniss murmurs. I turn back around. She's holding up a hand. "He ran opposite the direction he needed to go in order to get you." She seems baffled by his inexplicable, illogical behavior. "I didn't even think you were friends."

"We weren't." I cringe, remembering how crushed I felt when he confessed that he rescued me because his _mother_ asked him to. We weren't friends. Definitely not. "Gale said he owed me for—"

"The morphling," Katniss finishes instantly, which throws me off. She climbs back into her bed, sitting against the headboard. Her eyes wander to a point over my head, like she's watching the scene on her front doorstep play out again on the ceiling. I leave my place by the door and draw closer to her bed. On the other side of it, tucked between the wall and the nightstand is a chair. Probably the one Gale's spent the majority of his time in the Underground sitting in. I take a seat.

"That makes sense," Katniss finally says in a dismissive tone. "About the rescue. He'd want to repay you for the painkiller."

"Yeah," I mumble, wondering if non-observant Katniss has spent a lot of time ruminating over _my_ motivations behind the delivery on that snowy evening.

"So, why'd you do it?" she asks.

"Huh?" I gasp.

"Why would you bring Gale your mother's expensive medicine that she needed so badly? I never understood that." Her eyes narrow shrewdly. "I didn't think you two knew each other. You know, besides the times we sold you strawberries."

I suck in air, wondering where to begin and how badly this conversation could go.

_Stop it_, I order myself. This conversation could go really well. She isn't in love with Gale, after all, and never has been. Still, I feel like I've been encroaching on her territory this whole time, where Gale is concerned.

"Would you like the long or the short version?" I ask with a nervous laugh.

"Short."

"Are you sure?" I squeak. _Hell's_ _teeth_, _that's the hardest one_.

Katniss nods her head gravely. _Of course_. For once I wish she were more of the gossipy type. Not that I am that way, either, but it's help to cushion the truth with some minutia. I feel unnerved by how steadily she's watching me.

_Maybe I should've let Gale do this? _

_Then it would never happen_, I reply to myself.

_Point. _

My hands feel clammy, and it doesn't matter how many times I wipe them on my pants. I don't need to fear telling her the truth. There's no crime in how I've felt about Gale – and it went way beyond the vapid admiration of all the other girls at school who constantly prattled about his good looks in the hallways. Still, it feels like a sixteen ton weight's crushing my chest. I focus on the floor tiles.

"Katniss, I brought Gale the medicine because I've had feelings for him for ages," I say with as much confidence as I can muster. "And," I blink back the tears that suddenly prickle painfully behind my eyes, "I hated thinking of him in pain like that."

I can't look at her right away. But as the silence lengthens I find I can't bear the suspense and finally pull my eyes away from the floor.

Her face looks blank, except for the very thin line of her lips that almost frown.

"Katniss?" I murmur.

"You…liked…Gale?" she grimaces. "All this time?"

"Yes?" I say, though my watery voice makes it sound more like a question.

"And I never once picked up on it." Then she gasps. "Does he know?"

I open my mouth, then snap it shut again. I simply nod.

Her eyes soften and she wrings her hands like she's in distress. "Oh, Madge. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" I gasp, noting the sympathy in her voice. "Why?"

Katniss plays with the end of her braid like she's uncomfortable saying anything. "Well, Gale isn't fond of merchants. And he…well, you know how he'd dig at you sometimes."

Yes, I remember. Especially the reaping a year ago, when I made that foolish comment about my dress. That's all the information Katniss has to go on. She doesn't know about the time Gale intervened with those Peacekeepers during the Harvest Festival. She doesn't know about the entire journey from 12 to 13.

And so she's trying to let me down easy. Not because she hates the idea of Gale and I, but because she's concerned for my feelings, and believes that Gale couldn't possibly return them. I feel the weight on my chest lift and almost laugh.

"I think he's over that now, Katniss," I quip.

Her eyes flash with more surprise. "What makes you think that?"

I chew on my lip, trying to think of the best way to lay it out. "A lot has happened since the firebombing," I tell her. "You don't need to know all the minutia of the time we spent in the wilderness, but – Katniss, Gale's my boyfriend."

Katniss's eyes squinch shut, then open very, very wide. "Your _what_?"

"I love him and he —"

I bite my tongue when her head drops in her hands.

"I think I need to lie down," she chokes. No kidding. Her face is white as a ghost. She sinks down into the mattress. Her arms hang limp on either side of her body.

"Is it that bad?" I cry with alarm, jumping out of my chair in case I need to fetch her a glass of water. Or a defibrillator. My hands hover uselessly over her prostrate body, like they're trying to figure out where it hurts. "I'm sorry, Katniss, I shouldn't have said anything. It's my fault. I'm sorry," I babble.

Her hand pops up and covers my mouth, shutting me up. I blink down at her in surprise.

"It's…not bad…just strange," she stammers, shaking her head. Then she drops her hands but her eyes still fixate on me. "Even more strange than finding out I was married and pregnant all at once." She smiles sadly. "Which is saying something."

I swallow thickly. Peeta's stunning announcement during the Quart Quell interviews completely slipped my mind. "This is more strange than one of Peeta's fabrications?"

Katniss winces. "To me it is…I don't think of Gale that way, not as someone's…whatever."

I cross my arms over my stomach, as if I could hold myself together. For so me reason, her doubt hurts more than I thought it would. "Well, he's my whatever now," I murmur.

She smiles a little, but it's quickly replaced with concern. "He told you he loved you?"

I search my memories and draw a blank. My nose wrinkles and I feel oddly vulnerable not having a concrete statement on which to base my claims. It'd probably be a bad idea to tell her about the couch and all the other ways he likes to show me how he feels.

So, I settle for, "Well, he hasn't said it out loud, but that's the general idea."

Katniss bites her lip, as if she's struggling fwith herself. "Madge, not that long ago he asked me to run away from Twelve with him." She pulls at her braid with fresh gusto. "I'm not calling you a liar, but…how did he change so fast?" Katniss continues to shake her head and stare at the ceiling in shock. "I thought he despised you." Her eyes quickly shoot me an apologetic look. "Sorry," she whispers.

_They were going to run? _The thought of them following through with that plan makes my stomach cramp painfully. I'm glad I'm sitting in a chair. Could Gale honestly suggest running off with her? I knew before that my chances of ever being with Gale were slim when we lived in Twelve, but I had no idea how very near I came to losing completely.

And if they had run...what would have happened to Peeta? Or to the rest of us. I wonder if the bombing would ever have happened. Gale would be gone, but my parents would still be alive. Maybe. The possibilities makes my head swim and I have to stop.

It takes me a moment to realize that Katniss is waiting for me to reply, to tell her how Gale could go from wanting her to wanting me. I tell her the truth. Though it's not very flattering. Not for me.

"He thought you were dead, Katniss. Then we nearly died. A few times. It changes things," I murmur. "Are you upset?"

She shakes her head, but her eyes shimmer with tears in the lamplight. She swipes underneath her eyes with impatient fingers. "No…just…the world isn't working the way it used to. I feel overwhelmed."

"I shouldn't have told you," I say apologetically. "You have a lot on your mind already."

"No, it's okay. Just let me recover a moment," Katniss replies, holding up her hand. She gives me a sidelong glance, a lot like the ones Gale gives me when he's trying to gauge my reactions. "I guess I missed a lot while I was gone."

I blow out a long breath. "Yeah."

We fall into an uneasy silence, at least on my part. I resist the urge to pace, because that probably wouldn't help either of us much. But it doesn't last long before Katniss bolts upright in her bed and pins me with her hard grey eyes. I gulp, feeling like one of the squirrels she used to bring in.

"He's still my hunting partner," she barks. The pitch of her voice is desperate, not angry.

"O-o-okay," I stammer, feeling slightly bulldozed by her changing emotions.

She nods, more to herself, as if that settles everything. I blink at her for a bit before I realize that's her way of saying that Gale's still her friend even if I'm dating him. That she expects me not to be a proprietary girlfriend that won't let him hang around other girls.

"I can handle that," I continue with a steadier voice. "I don't want to take your friendship away from him. You're one of the most important people he has."

"That's that then." Katniss shrugs. Her lips purse and she blushes. "I'm glad that he found someone who'll love him back," she says like she has lockjaw. Not because she's being insincere, but because she's Katniss. Saying something that personal…well, this whole conversation really…rests well outside her comfort zone. I feel intensely grateful then. Her lips slant into a crooked frowny smile, like she can't decide. I blush but smile back.

"I care about him a lot, Katniss," I tell her. "I love him."

"I wish I could have, but…" then she frowns deeply. _"Oh."_

"What?" I ask, wondering if I've done something wrong.

Her eyes close slowly, then open again. Now she's the one not looking at me. "Gale's going to rescue Peeta."

"I know," I whisper. And now here's the part where I should beg her to talk him out of it…but the words don't come.

She cringes and rubs her hands together erraticly. "I—"

"I know," I cut in gently, but firmly enough that she lets it go.

The truth is, I don't know what she would have said. That she needs Gale to do this for her? That Peeta needs, no—deserves, to be rescued? That she's sorry Gale will be in danger? It doesn't really matter. Like Gale said, it changes nothing. I just don't want to sit through another apology tonight.

"Look at this." Katniss scoots over to make room for me on the bed. She holds up the picture of Peeta for me to see, which is a little dog-eared after Katniss prostrated herself on the bed. It shows his profile while he leans against a brick fence, or something. Sky scrapers break up the skyline like colorful popsicles. Katniss explains that this is the Training Center roof, how anybody who tried to jump over the half-wall would get thrown back onto the roof by an energy field.

I can't ask her to talk Gale out of going. Not after seeing the way Katniss looks at Peeta in the photo. Not after seeing the photo for myself.

Doing the right thing hurts. A lot. But being selfish, that would hurt too, in a different way. I want to be alone now, maybe go curl up under the covers of my dorm bed until some resignation sets in to offset the fear I have.

But I don't leave. We stay on her bed for a couple more hours and talk about everything that's happened. An attendant comes in with her breakfast and kindly brings back some more for me. Katniss is reluctant to tell me much about the arena or the rescue. Mostly she asks me about the escape from Twelve. She holds my hand in an unusually friendly gesture (for her) when I tell her about my parents. I skip to better things, like my first triumph over Liquor with the poison ivy bower. Her facial contortions make me laugh, which is the first time I've ever found anything amusing about that brief but disastrous acquaintance.

"You are a crazy girl," she mumbles.

"What?" I gasp. Maybe it's because I'm an only child, but I'm not used to people calling me names.

"That's what Haymitch called you when you delivered the morphling," she tells me. "Purposefully rolling around in poison ivy confirms it."

I blush and look down. "Oh." No wonder Haymitch read into things when I told him I escaped with Gale. He's been keeping tabs.

Mrs. Everdeen pops her head in at that moment. "Oh," she gasps. "Hello, Madge. Good morning," she chirps.

My mouth pops open. Mrs. E sounds a lot less hostile than she did days ago: the effect of getting her daughter back, I guess.

"I'll…I'll come back later," she says, stepping back out the door and closing it.

We're alone again. Katniss and I both yawn.

"I should go, Katniss. Neither of us slept at all last night," I tell her, rising from the bed and handing the photo back. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"You'll come see me again?" she asks, grasping my hand tightly.

I squeeze it in both of mine. "Yes, I'll come."

She nods contentedly. "I haven't seen anyone but Mom and Prim and Gale. Besides the nurses."

"Nobody?" I ask, surprised. Isn't she the rebellion's special symbol? I thought loads of people would want to see Katniss Everdeen. "Not Haymitch or anyone?"

Katniss shrugs. "I don't have anything to say to Haymitch until he keeps the promise he made me to save Peeta," she says indifferently, which tells me she's trying to conceal strong emotions on the subject. "Beetee's not really in a position to see anyone, and Finnick." Her façade crumbles here. "Finnick hasn't come near me since I said…they'd use Annie for bait." She hangs her head and looks so dejected that I wrap my arms around her shoulders in another hug.

"I'm so sorry," I murmur. "I'll come back as soon as I can."

Someone clears his throat, causing Katniss and I to startle apart.

We both turn to look and find Gale watching us studiously while he leans against the doorframe. Ugh – I never hear him coming! And neither of us heard the door open. My heart leaps into my throat, like I've been caught red-handed, though I have as much right to visit Katniss as he does. How long has he been standing there?

_Standing there in a brand new Mockingjay uniform!_

The sight of him in the black jumpsuit sends a jolt of unease through me, like this mission really is going to happen…which it is. But now it's real.

Gale's eyes dart between us as he tries to figure out what transpired in his absence. I don't give anything away, I think, but Katniss gawks at him like she's never seen him before. Gale gives up and enters the room with a few stiff steps, filling it with his presence like a cumulonimbus cloud, though he stays near the door. He addresses himself directly to Katniss.

"I brought someone who'd like to visit you," he says. "If you're up for it."

Katniss's wide eyes dart to the doorway then back to Gale. "Not Haymitch?" She cringes.

"Not Haymitch," he replies, folding his arms. His eyes dart to me for a second. "Someone else you'll be happy to see. Trust me."

"Okay," she mumbles uncertainly.

Gale ducks back out of the room without another word. Katniss and I exchange a glance, and I wonder if Gale's lack of acknowledgement means he's upset with me for disappearing this morning, or for seeing Katniss without him, or if he's still trying to maintain the rouse that we're not together, or that this visitor is very, very important that he's ignoring everything else?

Lots of possibilities. All of them go flying out of my head when he returns with the last person in the world I expected to see. Truly.

Because I thought he was a slave in the Capitol forever.

I feel the color drains from my face.

_Darius_. My mouth forms the word but no sound escapes. I stand beside Katniss's bed, paralyzed as a barrage of memories and emotions assault me. Blood on the cobbles. The crack of Thread's whip. Trying to push through the bodies squeezed together in the square. Darius warning me to keep out of it. Then the _thuck_ of the whip handle as it smashed against Darius's skull. _I thought he died_. Thread punished him. He was just gone without a word. _My_ _fault_.

Yet here he is. Ginger hair and all.

Darius nods to Katniss, his easy smile spilling across his face. She sits in stunned silence like me.

Then his blue eyes meet mine. I expect him to try to say something. Anything. Even though I know he can't. Instead, his brows crease with concern and he's moving toward the bed.

My blood roars in my ears. Lack of sleep and hunger and shock make my head feels like it's spinning. I look down at my feet, which feel like lead. Bad idea, I realize, as I feel the floor rush up to meet me.

* * *

**TBC**

Wow, way to recycle a cliffhanger. To find out how Gale wrangled up a uniform since Madge scarpered off to visit Katniss, please see Chapter 6 of _We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay._ If you haven't already. Or even if you have. See it again. Why not, eh?

Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta and thanks to MoonNRoses for cheerleading!


	10. Chapter 10

Again, lots of references to Chapter One of Repaid. And also…Madge shows a penchant for hitting her head. Re: The Great Escape. (You see my elaborate plot to get you to read my other stories?)

Also, if you haven't read **Scars** by KenoshaChick yet, you should. So you know, I'm nicer to Madge than she is, as proved by her latest chapter. LOL. ;)

_As ever, many thanks to Ceylon205 for beta! And also many thanks to anonymous reviewers, since I can PM you!

* * *

_

**Chapter Ten**

_Madge's POV

* * *

_**  
**

In my dream I am searching around for painkillers but can't find any. My head throbs and throbs, but the rows and rows of tall drawers are empty or locked. My frustration mounts two-fold when water drips down my forehead and into my eyes from an unknown source. I try to wipe the moisture away but I can't lift my hands higher than my shoulders. Ugh. Frustration bursts through my chest and with a growl I smash my fists into the drawers.

I wake up.

Water's still running into my right eye, but my hands are free to deal with it. I reach up and discover the source: a melting icepack rests on my forehead. I lift it away and search the skin with my fingers, discovering a lump that feels impossibly large. And tender. Erg.

I must have felt the real headache in my dream. It's painful enough in waking, without the sound of someone's shoe tapping restlessly on the floor on the other side of the bed. I have no recollection of lying down here. I turn my head a fraction to the left where the irritant's racket comes from.

Gale's sitting in a chair next to the bed, but he's staring off into space through hooded eyes or concentrating very hard on something he's thinking about. He chews his knuckle. I can't see his feet, but I can tell from the sound, and by the way his Mockingjay uniform-clad torso moves, that he's jiggling his foot against the floor.

"What's going on?" I rasp. His head snaps in my direction. He's wearing a grim frown, but it brightens somewhat when our eyes meet.

Gale slips out of his chair and leans over me. He takes the sweating icepack from me in one hand and gently runs his calloused thumb over my brow with the other, inspecting the lump. "Welcome back," he says.

"Thanks," I automatically reply. Then I mumble, "Um…where did I go?"

He shrugs. "Only you know."

I blink, trying to puzzle out Gale's unusually cryptic reply. I give up. The last thing I remember is seeing Darius and then nothing. In fact, as far as I know, I'm not the one who went anywhere.

"Where's Katniss?" I ask. "And Darius?"

"In her room," Gale replies.

Her room? But…I thought…aren't we in her room? I take a closer look at the whitewashed walls, smell the antiseptic, and feel the rough sheets while Gale strides to the other side of the bed where someone placed a nightstand. This unit looks exactly identical to Katniss's. Until I see the door is on the opposite wall.

"Then where are we?" I gasp.

"In your room. Across the hall," he tells me nonchalantly as he rifles through the nightstand drawer. He pulls out a rectangular pad. He cracks it with his hands and shakes it.

"_My_ room?" I cry over the sloshing chemicals, twinging my head. It sends a thunderclap of pain through my skull. I wince. "Ow."

"Ow is right," Gale grunts, placing a new icepack on my head. "You clocked your forehead pretty good on the side of Katniss's bed. That's one way to get her to vacate," he jokes. "But maybe not the best idea. You might have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion," I grumble as the cold sinks soothingly into my skin.

"Madge, your eyes are dilated," Gale points out, gently pushing my eyelid open. "Maybe I should get the nurse now that you're awake."

"I don't need a nurse." I push his hand away and try to sit up. The icepack slips off, onto the pillow. The room looks like it's spinning and my forehead feels like it has more cracks in it than the sidewalks back in Twelve. Again, ow.

Gale reapplies the icepack. "Lie back." He picks up a brown bottle from the side table and spills two brown tablets into my hand. Painkillers.

"Water, please," I croak.

Gale leaves to get some and quickly returns. He hands me a paper cone filled with cool water and I down the pills.

He purses his lips, giving me a stern look. "Take it easy, Madge," he bosses. Then he hushes a little. "Look, Darius wants to talk to you. Think you're up for it? You aren't going to, you know…." He makes a diving gesture with his hand.

"I don't think so," I mumble. "Seeing him all of a sudden just surprised me." A lot. Sort of like how an ocean has _a lot_ of water.

"You're sure you aren't," Gale scratches his head while he thinks of an appropriate phrase, "emotionally overwrought?"

"Who isn't emotionally overwrought these days?" I snap. Gale's eyes widen in surprise at my tone and I feel guilty. But his question is getting a tad too close to a subject that is very painful for me, one that has returned to confront me with no warning. I was not prepared for Darius to turn up out of the blue, or to be confronted by all the guilt and sorrow I feel about what I did to my friend.

"Sorry," I apologize. "I guess I am overwrought. But I do need to talk to Darius." I smile weakly, trying to joke, "If you're worried I'll take another head-dive, you could strap me in like Katniss."

Gale frowns. Well…he frowns more and his heavy eyebrow knit together. "Fortunately, she doesn't need restraints anymore. Not even with all the news going around."

Oh.

I stare guiltily at the white tiles of the drop ceiling that hides the evidence that we live in a cavern.

"I…I told her, Gale," I confess.

"I know," he replies evenly.

My eyes involuntarily flicker to his face. "How?"

Gale shrugs. "Well, the way she gaped at me, I guess would be the first clue," he says. "And the _why didn't you tell me you're in love with Madge Undersee?_ was the second."

"Was that all she said?" I mumble.

Gale's features open into a look of awe and his restless fingers scrunch the hair at the nape of his neck. "Oh, no. Nope. She had some other things to say."

"Are you angry with me?" I ask weakly.

Gale's hand drops to his side. He shakes his head.

"Not even for sneaking out while you were asleep?" I grimace.

"No."

"Why not?" I ask. Not that I'm looking for trouble, but it seems odd that he's not bothered at all, especially when he made such a point of keeping this secret.

"I…," he pauses to think. I've never seen Gale so fidgety before. If it was anyone but Gale, I'd say he was wringing his hands. Maybe their just cold from the icepack. "There's not a lot of time to get angry about stuff like that."

There isn't? Then what is he talking about? "But you scowled at me and said 'news' like you meant _our _news," I babble. "And I assumed…"

"I meant _other_ news," he says stoically. "About the mission. We met for training this morning and received some important information. If I scowled, it's only because I know how you feel about my part in it."

Oh. I reach out for his hand. "Gale, I…"

But I'm spared a response when the door opens. Gale spins around with his hunter's reflexes, but stands down when Katniss steps through.

Something's off about her. I can't exactly say, but her eyes seem dull and her face pale.

"I told you she wasn't in a coma," Katniss mutters to Gale. _Coma_? She elbows him. I bet it hurt. She has bony elbows.

Gale's eyes flash and his shoulders hunch a little like he might be embarrassed. "I said it _might _be a coma. It doesn't hurt to check." He rubs his ribs while he backs up to sit on the bed next to where I'm lying. Despite the waspishness of his tone, he still looks concerned.

Katniss ignores him, or at least she's too busy observing us together and conscious for the first time. I have trouble reading her expression. Not anger or disapproval. Just curious. In a guarded sort of way, I think.

"Do you feel okay?" she asks me.

"I'm all right," I reply.

She nods. "Darius wants to know if he can come in. We've been talking. Sort of." She steps closer to the bed. "I'm finding out a lot about you today. I never knew that you were friends with Darius."

"Um…" I blink at her. Naturally I never told her. Our activity together had to stay a secret.

Katniss sits in the chair by the bed and takes a deep breath. I scoot up a little on the headboard because I don't like how Gale and Katniss are both standing or sitting over me.

"He told me that you two met when working for Haymitch, Madge," she says blandly, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice. It's strange compared to the warm way we almost parted not that long ago, just before Gale arrived.

"That's true," I answer. Gale's eyes narrow, not at me, though. He's staring at Katniss with a puzzled expression on his face.

If Katniss notices Gale's scrutiny, she doesn't let on. "For the rebellion."

I nod slowly, wondering about Gale's absorbed interest in Katniss's profile and what I'm missing.

Katniss touches a spot over her chest, like her fingers are looking for something they remember, but can't find anymore. "So the pin…." She stops to swallow. "You said once that it was just a song bird, when I asked about the mockingjay on your pin. But you knew all along that you gave me the symbol of the rebellion. Didn't you?"

I see. She's wondering if I got her stuck in the middle of this on purpose. If I knew what I was doing or what would happen when I pinned the brooch on her dress that day in the Justice Building. Or if I did it, as per Haymitch's instructions.

"Katniss, I swear I didn't know," I tell her. "I mean, I did know about the mockingjay symbol. My family on my mother's side has old ties to the first rebellion. When I gave it to you, I swear I only hoped it would help find you support from our allies in the Capitol. I didn't know they'd use you…or any of this."

"Why didn't you tell me the truth after the Games, when I asked you about the pin?" she cries, wringing her hands. This must be like the episodes Gale told me about. Katniss's naturally reserved and cool. I've never seen her agitated like this.

"I couldn't, Katniss," I stammer. "Haymitch swore me to secrecy about my part in the rebellion. Even my parents didn't know the truth. And besides, he hardly told me anything. I didn't know he'd have plans for you or that my pin would suggest." The aching in my head crescendos through the painkillers and I clutch my forehead.

"You used me, just like Haymitch," she hisses.

I'm completely floored by her accusation and the bitterness in her voice. "I'm sorry—"

"You should have—"

"Katniss, Madge did not betray you," Gale growls, putting his hand on my shoulder. He squeezes gently and suddenly I feel like I can sit up straighter. Katniss's eyes shoot daggers at Gale, but his voice is low and steady when he says, "This isn't the best time for this. You're too worked up and Madge isn't feeling well. Don't say anything you'll regret."

Katniss stills completely, except for her sharp eyes which follow the line of Gale's arm to my shoulder and up to my face. Different emotions sweep over her own. Surprise. Betrayal. Hurt. Then she releases the breath she's been holding, and shakes her head slowly like she's coming out of a dream.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, looking down at her hands. "I don't know what came over me. I've done so well lately."

All I can do is stare at her with wide eyes, feeling bulldozed. Although I know that this is a side effect of the trauma she's experienced, I'm still reeling from being on the receiving end of so much anger. I'm glad Gale's next to me.

"You are doing well, Katniss," Gale placates. "No harm done. Just take it easy."

"I'm going to find Darius," she says, still not meeting my eyes. She slips off the chair and leaves Gale and I alone in the room.

"That's how she behaved almost constantly in the beginning. Everything triggered her," Gale murmurs. "You see how it is."

I nod dumbly.

He kisses my temple and I let him. "Are you okay?"

"I will be, I think," I tell him, pulling his arm till he sits next to me on the mattress. I lean on his side. "It seems like everything I've done wrong in the last year is coming back to haunt me. Maybe I should have stayed on the couch."

Gale's fingers slip beneath my chin, gently forcing me to look at him. "Hey, it's like you said. Haymitch didn't give you the complete picture. You didn't anticipate the consequences."

"And Darius?" I swallow.

"What about Darius?" he asks.

I grip his fingers and pull them away from my face so I can look away. It's too difficult to admit this while I can see his eyes flicker with emotion. "He's an Avox because I tried to stop Thread from whipping you. He stepped in to save me from getting in trouble and it cost him. That should be me with no tongue."

Gale shakes his head. "You both should have left well enough alone. I knew poaching would probably land me in trouble one day."

"Trouble?" I gasp. "Thread wanted to flay every last piece of skin from your body. That's above and beyond—"

"Nothing is _above and beyond_ when it comes to the Capitol, Madge," he gripes.

That, unfortunately, is true. "Ugh. And to think, that man's still alive somewhere. I'd like to tear him apart," I growl.

Gale fishes the icepack from the pillow and slaps in on my forehead. "You should probably recover first," he says, unimpressed by my ferocity.

Someone knuckles the door then. We look up and see Darius slip quietly inside with Katniss on his heels. She looks mollified now, nearly herself except for her abashed blush on her cheeks. Darius nods at me and taps his forehead as if to ask if I'm feeling all right.

Gale switches places with Darius, pulling up a chair next to Katniss across the room. Darius holds the icepack for me, which he doesn't need to do, but everyone seems to be in a gallant mood all of a sudden. I don't really say anything, not knowing where to begin, and well…he can't. So I eavesdrop on Katniss and Gale for the time being. Their voices are hushed and urgent. Strips of red brighten Katniss's cheeks and her reddened eyes shine. But she's sitting upright, at least, looking determined rather than desperate. I notice for the first time that Gale has shadows under his eyes and he chews the knuckle on his thumb when he isn't talking, like he did earlier. He's unsettled.

Katniss brushes her finger down the smooth material covering his arm, and even though I know it's just Katniss and that she's in love with Peeta, the gesture wakes a nasty green dragon in my stomach that I didn't know existed. She asks, no longer whispering, "When did you get this uniform?"

"This morning," he says, studying the cuff. "We had a training session."

"What weapon did you learn to use?" Katniss asks. Her tone sounds clinical.

"Handguns."

"I've never used a gun," she says, as if cataloguing the long list of weapons she has used. Guns don't show up in the arena, nor do bombs or other automatic weapons. Not unless some kid arrives with the knowledge to assemble such a weapon, like the boy in the 74th Games who used pieces of the arena launches. "Did you do well?"

He shrugs. "There's always room for improvement."

Both of their faces split into an identical smirk and I realize that this is an inside joke. I don't think it's funny or amusing that Gale is not at all prepared for this mission. What's the cheerful form of gallows humor? Oh yeah. Bravado. Gale's middle name. I feel like I'm going to throw up while Gale goes on to explain Darius's appearance and Haymitch's announcement.

"They want Peeta to renounce the resistance publicly, and blame the rebels for your death," he tells her.

"My death?" she balks. "But I'm not dead."

Gale shrugs. "Peeta doesn't know that."

"The Capitol wanted me dead, not the resistance! Peeta knows better. He wouldn't just play into Snow's hands like that, he's got to know something's wrong."

"Well, I guess we'll find out if he's as bright as he looks," Gale mutters. For all his fine speeches about rescuing Peeta, it's apparent that he's in no hurry to kick his habit of insulting his past rival. Katniss glares at him. "I mean…uh…" he fumbles.

Katniss interrupts his backpedaling. "When does the team leave, then?"

Gale visibly stiffens and I see his head start to turn toward me, so I close my eyes, pretending I'm not listening. He clears his throat, then mumbles his reply. All I catch it that the program will be held outdoors in front of the Training Center, practically waiting for them to snatch him away from the Capitol's grip.

I turn back to Darius, who's looking at me with concern. He holds up three fingers in answer to the question I obviously want answered.

_Three days?_ And Gale only just used a gun today for the first time. What is wrong with the leaders in this place? I'm distracted from panicking further when Darius pulls a small notepad from his jacket pocket. His lips thin into a weak smile when I gaze at it curiously. He scribbles hastily then spins the notepad around for me to read.

_Hello, Princess._

Princess. The nickname a Peacekeeper gave me and Darius adopted after the Harvest Festival debacle that started the "who-owes-who" relationship between Gale and I. I kind of hate nicknames. Only jerks give them to me.

I shake my head. "I don't know what to say to you."

_Well, this would be easier if you knew Avox._

"That's not what I meant." I touch my fingers to his lips. "I'm so sorry."

Darius smiles again, then scribbles more on his pad. _Chin up, Madge. Didn't I tell you I'd become a hero?_

That's exactly what he said on the very last day I saw him. Just before he gave up his freedom trying to save Gale for me.

"You are a hero," I whisper. Darius nods, satisfied. "I don't feel like I'm much of one, though. This is my fault."

_Don't look so guilty, Madge. I made that choice and I've got no regrets. I've accomplished more good without my tongue than a lifetime added up._

The words blur on the page as my eyes mist up. Darius's attitude after what the Capitol's done to him leaves me breathless. Although I don't believe he's as okay as he looks, I feel humbled by his easy forgiveness. It takes a moment before I can finish reading.

_And you know Haymitch wouldn't have gotten far without us, right? Looks like our hard work is finally paying off._

That's optimistic. Especially this early in the game. Plus, I don't remember the last time I did anything remotely useful for the rebellion, or even felt the need. My parents' death has affected me more than I realized. Instead of wanting revenge, I just want all this to be over so I don't lose more people who I love. What's more, Haymitch hasn't spoken to me once since our first encounter on the Cole. He said he'd help me out, without saying he expected anything in return. But he's been completely hands-off since then. I look in Gale's direction and realize that he's like my replacement in this phase of Haymitch's plan.

"Looks like Haymitch is doing just fine without any further assistance from me," I mutter.

_Let's see some more rebel spirit, Undersee. There's still room for your skills in this rebellion. Paper pushing, and suchlike. We can work together, just like old times._

Old times. Yeah. I toss the melted icepack onto the nightstand. It squelches when it hits the metal. That sound pretty much sums up my enthusiasm. And yet, here's Darius, who had his tongue cut out and decided to use it for the rebellion's advantage.

It's tiny. Just a spark. But being with Darius helps me remember what my old enthusiasm used to feel like.

Darius taps the notepad in a "speaking of which" sort of way, then jabs his thumb over his shoulder at Gale with a wink. He could tell I had feelings for the Gale long before he and I were even friendly. I feel my cheeks burn, remembering how Darius used to refer to Gale as my boyfriend after the Peacekeeper incident. It's amazing how Darius can still tease me like he used to, just with his facial expressions.

_So, you snagged the miner after all_?

"We'll see," I mutter.

Darius takes the notepad back and writes that he can't stay any longer.

_Nah. He looks good and snagged to me. Anyway, I only meant to drop in on Katniss. She looked like she could use some closure after the last time we saw one another._

"She isn't the only one," I say. My guilt has been eating me up on the inside ever since Haymitch told me about Darius's fate. And even before then…I shudder, remembering the nightmare I had once about kissing Gale and then he turned into a tongueless Darius. Strange. My subconscious must have tried telling me something. I shake that disturbing idea and finish the last note.

_I have a friend I need to get back to. _

"A friend, huh?"

Darius waggles his eyebrows, but taps his lips to let me know that's all he's going to say on the matter.

Or, come to think of it, that this friend is also an Avox.

We're interrupted by Nurse Temple, who comes in saying that she came to see if the patient is awake. She sends Katniss and Darius away. Gale just ignores her and stays in the chair across from the bed. I realize while I appreciate this stubborn trait in Gale, I hope our children don't inherit it.

I'm not sure where that thought came from. The nurse gives me a quizzical glance when the blush reaches my forehead, which she's inspecting. She shrugs to herself, then checks my pupils. Finding nothing more to report than a headache, she says that I'm free to go and to continue taking the brown tablets if the pain persists.

I slip off the bed as she leaves, pocketing the pill bottle. "Will you walk me back to…to wherever I'm going?" I ask. "Or do you have somewhere else Haymitch needs you to be?"

Gale shakes his head. "Not until tonight. He's with Plutarch and Quintus finalizing plans," he tells me, pushing himself off the chair. "You don't have to stay in the dorms. Come home with me."

I nod. "There's something I wanted to tell you earlier, but didn't get the chance."

Gale holds the door open for me to pass through. When we walk by the nurse's station I make a point of reaching for his hand and turn back to wink at Nurse Chapel. She gawks at us, but I swear I hear the chair shoot back and bump into something as the doors close on the medical ward. I imagine she was in a hurry to make the rounds on the gossip chain. I grin, feeling pleased with myself.

"What's up?" Gale asks tentatively.

"Oh, the nurses are gossip—," I stop when I realized by his puzzled expression, that he meant to ask about what I'd said early, about having something to tell him, and not why I have a silly grin on my face. "I wanted you to know that I've had a change of heart." I clear my throat and staring with false fascination at the drab wall panels of the Level 2 corridor. "About the mission."

Gale stops us. His hands grip my shoulders, causing me to face him completely. "What about the mission?" he asks cautiously. I don't blame him. Technically, we're still fighting about it.

I busy myself by straightening his collar. "You were right, Gale. You need to help Peeta. I'm sorry I asked you to stay."

Gale scratches his head. "That's…good."

It doesn't feel good. My throat constricts and the tears forming behind my eyes makes them burn. "But I still believe that Plutarch and Haymitch are irresponsible for allowing you to go without sufficient training," I add hastily, feeling like there isn't enough time to say everything I need to. "And you better promise me to be careful and…"

Gale's cups my cheek and my words stick in my throat. His thumb strokes over my lips. "I promise."

"You have to try to learn everything you can before your departure," I continue. "You should've been training, not sitting with me —"

"Madge, I leave in three days," he says. For the first time I see that his eyes are burning too. "I'll do what I can, but in the meantime, I also need to be with the people I love."

"You l-love me?" I gasp. My heart feels like it's jumping into my mouth and I have to swallow it again.

"Yes, Madge, I do." His eyes are the softest shade of grey I've ever seen, like spring rain, as he confesses. A self-deprecating half-grin curls over his mouth. "I was a little slow on the uptake. My mother knew before I did. And you've been saying that you love me for so long, but I couldn't figure it out. When we were on the hovercraft I thought that I'd do the right thing and let you go. Not hold you to the things you said in the wilderness. You could have a new life and start over completely."

"What!" I cry. "Gale, how could you think of something so silly?"

He pulls me close. People move around where we're standing in the middle of the corridor, staring as they pass by.

"I know. I gave that up as a bad job before we even made it Underground," he says so low it's almost a growl. "I would have strung up anybody you tried to date anyway. You're mine now."

"You rescued me, so you get to keep me?" I ask with a foolish grin on my face, quoting something he once said to Rory: _When you drag a woman out of a burning district, you can keep her too._

Gale smirks. "That's the general idea." Then the smirk fades and he grows serious again. "I know that since we've arrived here I've been a jerk, but I've thought about you the entire time I've been doing my duty everywhere else. You were the one person I wanted to be with."

I can see the sincerity in his face. Gale is nothing if not honest and direct, and if I can hardly believe what I'm hearing, it's not because of him. I think maybe it will always surprise me that I can have the love of the one man who I never believed would give it to me.

"Come on, then." I tug him into the empty elevator behind me. The doors close behind us and I press the button for Six and wait till we're moving. I smirk at Gale. "Here's a trick I learned in the Justice Building elevator." Then I blush, and add, "Only, not for this purpose."

I hit the emergency stop button. We rock on our feet as the motion suddenly terminates.

"Madge, what are you doing?" Gale asks suspiciously.

"We only have three days," I murmur, standing on my tiptoes to fold my arms around his neck. I feel the bottle of painkillers press into my hip when I lean into Gale. Well. I won't be needing those. "Let's make the most of it."

Gale's eyes widen for a moment, just for a moment, before he lifts me off my feet.

* * *

**TBC**

That little bit of elevator action was inspired by an up and coming (I certainly hope!) one-shot by the lovely MoonNRoses. Can't take credit for it! And now, a little less conversation, a little more action please! It is so time to rescue the dough boy!


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N**__: Here there be possible MJ __**spoilers**__ (and pirates, apparently). I can't answer for what may or may not be said in reviews, etc. Ye be warned. _

_Hello, pretty things. How are you holding up after the emotional kick in the jewels? Thanks so much to everyone who emailed, Tweeted, IM'd, PM'd me or reviewed/favorited my stories after reading Mockingjay. You have no idea how wonderful it was to hear from you all. I feel all smoopy inside. :3_

_So, yeah. I'm going to pretend that MJ didn't happen. Are we cool with that? Madge is alive and kicking ass. Gale isn't a sell-out, manipulative douche, Coin's homicidal bitch, or Mr. Schmancy Job McHotLips. (Okay, so I really enjoyed him in the first half of the book – what happened?) The pearl, the pin, and the morphling actually mean something. Peeta's a saint and Katniss has a heart. **Proceed as usual.**

* * *

_

**Chapter 11**

_Gale's POV_

* * *

While Plutarch Heavensbee drones over the asthmatic ventilation system about the mission's projected fatality rate, I try to scour off the engine oil beneath my fingernails, thinking about how Madge won't let me touch her while my hands are filthy from the hovercraft repair training earlier. I give it up as a bad job without water and tons of soap. Maybe, since this is my last night in the Underground, she'll tolerate a few smudges on her standard issue rags? A guy can hope.

Besides, in certain circumstances, like in the elevator yesterday, she's not very observant. She barely noticed when some old guy with thick glasses pried the doors open on us. I had the presence of mind to dip her in my arms and make it look like she hit her head when the elevator "unexpectedly" stalled The bump on her forehead from Katniss's bed added a nice touch of authenticity. And she played off the head injury pretty well. But I congratulate myself for the boneless effect.

I'm learning more about her every day. Never underestimate the power of boredom on kids. Who knew Madge would pick up something so useful as the different uses for an emergency stop button when left to her own devices in the Justice Building while her dad had to work.

And it's one good memory to take with me on the mission.

_When the elevator's descent suddenly terminates, I rock back on my heels, but never lose my footing. _

"_Madge, what are you doing?" I ask, trying to keep any traces of paranoia out of my voice. Posy might enjoy elevator rides, but I just barely tolerate them like any other miner who doesn't want to be trapped below the earth. _

"_We only have three days," she states, with a blush on her cheeks. "Let's make the most of it." _

_Won't argue with that. Getting stuck on an elevator on purpose with Madge beats the hell out of accidentally getting stuck in one with my crew. Especially Bristel. He always smelled like cabbage._

_Madge stands on her toes and I feel the gentle pressure of her arms around my neck. Even on her toes, I still have to bend over her. The soft curves of her body sink against my bones. The situation takes me by surprise. But I'm used to surprises, and I understand what she's up to – utilizing one of the few places where we have complete privacy. If only for a few moments. __My hands slip down her waist, and then lower, risking the chance of getting a slap__. She squeaks in surprise when I cup her beneath the back pockets of her pants and lift her up. My mouth presses against hers, muffling the sound and the following sigh. Madge hooks her legs around my hips for the first time since I taught her to swim. We press, chest to chest, against the steel cabin wall for stability, but mostly to get closer. Keeping my hands splayed beneath her, I hold her up so the handrail won't leave a bruise. The heat in the cabin kicks up a few notches. Sweat makes my uniform stick to my back. Her fingers stroke the back of my head. I press a kiss through the fabric on her shoulder, slowly feeling drunk._

I shift in my seat, and finally cross my legs as the effect of the memory becomes physical and try to focus back on the here and now. I'm sitting next to Nev, after all. At least her eyes are trained on the screen hanging at the front of the room and not on my legs. Quintus takes the podium after a pep-talk from Plutarch and if I'm not mistaken, I'm pretty sure I hear her sigh. Not the weary kind, either. Her eyes hastily cast around the room as an unmistakable flush creeps up her neck. Huh.

I guess we're both having trouble focusing. She catches me watching her and her eyebrows lift like a challenge. _So what?_

I shrug. _I'm not saying anything._

"This will be our final briefing, folks. Tomorrow will dawn on Operation Pennie," Quintus declares as he bends over a scale hologram of the Capitol, which an aide has rolled in on a pedestal. "We'll arrive within 24 hours via hoverplanes. In case any of you have the misconceived notion that our success won't have big consequences, I'm here to tell you differently. Once we're in, this turns into a full-out war." Quintus punctuates this point by slapping his gloves against his palm. The rhinestones can't feel good on his skin, but he doesn't wince or anything. "Luckily, getting into the Capitol won't be so bad."

"What about getting out again?" Finnick asks. He's in the front row, looking the perfect model of a soldier. Scrubbed, shaved, neat, sitting straight and his eyes completely focused. He even smells good. It's a stunning transformation, to say the least. It reminds me of being nine years old again, watching him throw a trident around in the 65th Games with the same ease with which Katniss wields her bow.

"Getting out?" Quintus repeats, pursing his studded lips thoughtfully. "Getting out. Well, that'll suck."

Figures.

"However, we need to focus on what we're going to be up to in between those two events – namely, the rescue," Quintus continues. "You've all received a copy of Peeta's script and looked it over?"

He means the transcript for Peeta's televised rejection of the rebellion that's scheduled for tomorrow. Snow knows more than anyone, the persuasive power of the victor from District 12. If anything, Peeta's stirred up the real trouble for the Capitol, using words to generate sympathy for Katniss, turning her into someone they desire, and someone the districts will follow. I bet it's a pleasure for Snow to think he can use Peeta's charisma against the resistance.

Everyone nods the affirmative with expressions bordering on grim or distasteful, acknowledging that we've done our homework. I gave my copy to Posy and Vick to color on, since it didn't take close study to see that Peeta's in a tight spot if he goes through with the speech, and an even tighter one if he doesn't. I'm not much of one for words, so it's strange to see how much effect a few paragraphs can have on our current situation.

Leo raises his hand. Between his and Finnick's shoulders, I can see the stack of papers on the corporal's lap. Notes and highlighting scrawl over the top sheet of the transcript. I guess he found something I missed.

Quintus calls on him.

"I just skimmed the packet last night," Leo says. Beside him, Finnick gives an ironic snort. He's noticed the heavily annotated pages, too. "There's all kinds of junk about the rebellion's vendetta against the victors, like we were the ones who wanted to murder them. There's a line in here about an influenza outbreak in District 12 that's delaying the coal shipments, instead of telling them that the district and mines have been destroyed. Not one word about the blitz. They're also denying Thirteen's existence while trying to convince the citizens that we're a viable threat. I'm not overly fond of the Capitol citizens—"

Quintus coughs into his gloves.

Leo blushes. "Uh, sorry Quintus. Present company excepted, and all," he fumbles. "But, uh, they don't deserve to be fed so many lies by their own president. Geez."

Finnick pares a fingernail and adds wryly, "Leo's right. They should know exactly what's going on in the districts around them and why they won't be able to buy caviar for their cats in the near future."

"Yeah. Like they aren't going to wonder why District Four's had an on-going typhoon for six months now. They aren't even good lies, but Snow thinks his citizens will just swallow the tripe." Leo shakes his head, missing Finnick's irony. He huffs. "Snow's got big balls."

Quintus smirks. "But we've got the biggest balls of them all."

Nevada groans, and rubs her forehead like she's got a sinus headache. I don't blame her. There's a certain level of professionalism lacking in this so-called military.

"Present company excepted," Quintus continues, winking at Nevada, "And that being said, Team 1, or as I like to call it: Team Faylmitch, will retrieve Haymitch's special little friend, and Miss Cresta, who is located on Level 4 of the Training Center. Our sources suggest that she is under minimal security. Haymitch, Finnick, and Leo will utilize Avox entrances and byways to secure her. Team 2 consists of Nevada, Gale and yours truly. We, Team McHawtRock, want to nab Peeta Mellark after his speech." _Mc hot what?_ Where does he come up with this tripe? Quintus doesn't notice the befuddled glances he receives from the rest of us. "There will be a crescendo in the anthem and we'll be able to get our hands on him then. Security will relax, he'll already be in the building, which helps us out."

I raise my hand.

"Hawthorne?"

"Wouldn't it work better to take Peeta before he makes the speech?" I ask. "Before he even leaves the Training Center?"

"Why do you think that?" asks Haymitch from the darkest corner in the room, where he's lurking like a rat. It fits him.

I shrug. "You know the guy better than I do, Haymitch, but unless he's comes to think of the rebellion the way Snow does, I don't think he's likely to stick to the script. Not if he knows Katniss is with us. Doesn't he have a tendency to improvise?" I don't know if everyone in the room knows that how Peeta played the romance card with Katniss in the 74th Games, or that their secret marriage and baby were fabrications, but everyone who's ever heard his interviews knows that he has a way with words.

"Perhaps," Haymitch grumbles. "But everyone will be watching him like a hawk before the speech. We'll have no way to get to him without blowing our cover."

"And if he doesn't stick to the script, you don't think Snow will have immediate plans for him?" He already threatened my family without any provocation. Peeta wouldn't last the second it'd take to put a bullet in his thick skull.

"You better be light on your feet then," is all Haymitch has to say.

"It's not my feet…foot…you should worry about," I mutter in return.

"Which brings us back to our battle plan," Quintus transitions brightly – almost with Effie Trinket verve – bringing us back to the task at hand. "The great escape. This is the plan that Plutarch, Haymitch and I have devised…"

I listen to the plan. It could be worse. But one thing's for sure, no matter how we play it, the last person on earth I'd want to be tomorrow is Peeta Mellark.

* * *

An insistent beeping in my ear suggests that it's another day in the Underground. Huzzah. My fingers fumble to find the off switch and I curse, _hell's teeth,_ at the foul clock until the sound terminates. I run my hands over my rough stubble a few times while I will myself to sit up. It's funny how in the old days in 12, I didn't need something to beep me awake. Internal clocks don't help much in the Underground, if they exist at all.

It's not quite day break…or _lights_ _on_, I guess, so I try not to wake anybody up while I dress. Rory's mouth-breathing like a slack-jawed monkey on the top bunk in our room, while his foot dangles down nearly in Vick's face. Vick cradles his pillow against his chest like a stuffed animal. I see them for what they are, vulnerable little kids and it makes me feel torn between leaving them undefended while I'm gone and going on this mission. My first duty should be to them. That's what Dad would've said. But then, they're here in the Underground, which is the safest place to be. And even if he's a drooling half-pint right now, Rory's not going to be a kid for much longer. He'll get a taste of what it's like to be the man of the house. I bet he'll do all right.

I'm ready except for my boots, which Mom insists should stay by the door. I don't know why. Shoes in the house never bothered Mom when we lived in the Seam. Coal and dirt tended to get wherever they wanted to go anyway. I close the bedroom door quietly behind me. Nobody's in the outer room. The couch sags like an empty potato skin against the wall. Posy latched onto Madge like a new doll when she moved her scant possessions from the girls' dorm to our flat. My sister makes her share the bottom bunk rather than use the couch. _Funny_, I think, rolling my eyes. _No officials have beaten down the door to enforce their housing codes yet. _

Boots on, I grab some kind of processed food bar, which looks like grain and fruit but doesn't taste like it, to eat for breakfast. Then I slip out the door for the last time. My family will come up to see me off later.

The lifts team with activity this morning. We have to stop on every level to add more passengers until the full car belches us out onto our destination. Everyone's headed to Level 1.

I follow the traffic past the forlorn immigration station, past the corridors leading to official offices, toward the enormous plate glass windows, which give a clear view into Hangar 1.

My feet stall and bodies buffet my shoulders from both sides as they try to sidestep me after my unexpected stop. Some jerk curses at me and hurries on through the archway. I can't help it. It's just…

The rising sun blanches my eyes. Unprotected, they start to water, but I can't tear them away from the shining layers of pink, orange and purple-grey through the tops of trees far away in the foreground, outlined by a mountain spine. The open maw of the Underground hangar frames the panorama. How long has it been? Only a week? Two weeks? Too long.

"Shake a leg, Hawthorne."

Finnick Odair strides by me. If he notices the beauty of the woods in front of us, he doesn't show it. Ingrate.

Hangar 1, the largest of the thirteen and the one we arrived in as refugees, looks like a flock of mockingjays swooping around larger birds of prey as uniformed soldiers and grimy machinists ring the hovercrafts being prepared for departure. I scan the crowd, looking for the unnatural green scruff belonging to Quintus. Everyone born in the Underground tends to have the same straight, mousey brown hair. His hair looks strange, but the green and brown streaks sticking out like spikes on a mace are helpful beacons in the middle of chaos. Although, the usefulness terminates once we're in the Capitol. He'll just be another freak at the circus. I spot him standing on a low scaffolding in front of the open hood of our hoverplane.

Somebody must have wrestled the green and yellow sequined uniform away from the pilot, because he's wearing a sensible, black and white jumpsuit like the rest of us. Only his aviator jacket with the bright green QM monograms, which he managed to retain, bears any of trace of glitz.

As I get closer, I see that Quintus isn't the only unadorned piece on this mission.

"We're not taking the Hobgoblin?" I ask from the ground beside the scaffold. I figured Quintus and his Besra were a package deal.

A pained expression pinches Quintus's face and he frowns deeply at a clipboard he's holding. "The Hobgoblin has a reputation back home. As do I," he admits. I'm thrown off when he uses the term _home_ for the Capitol, but he doesn't notice or doesn't care. His hand skims tentatively over the carbon-fiber frame, like he wants to bond with our hovercraft but can't. "I feel like a cheating bastard, leaving her behind."

Hobgoblin seems like a strange name for a girl hoverplane. I don't say that nonsense out loud. I'm already getting sucked into Quintus's strange world and I'd hate to admit it. But because he looks so downcast, I ask, "What's this one's name?"

Quintus's fish-tackle eyebrows knot together. He crosses something off the checklist. "Besra-75 for its make. UW2 for Underground Wing 2 – its stand in the fleet."

"Just Besra-75 W2?" That's not surprising for the Underground. The fact that Quintus hasn't devised a nickname yet is, though.

"Tragically," he gripes.

"It's a warplane, McFarlane, not a pleasure ship," Nevada grouses, coming around from the other side of the scaffolding framing Besra-75 W2's nose. Her hair's braided into a thick rope and tucked under itself. Not a single brown wisp frames her oval face. She's wearing the identical uniform we received on the first day of training, but I notice a gun holster around her waist that looks older and more weathered than the one Sprocket issued me. Family heirloom, maybe? "It doesn't require a chintzy name or gaudy artwork."

Quintus sends her a sour look from above. He's already about a foot taller than her without the scaffolding. "It's like naming your firstborn child Baby 1," he rejoins. "It lacks imagination. What do you think, Hawthorne?"

"Uh…" I balk, not wanting to get caught up in their argument. I already feel like an idiot just standing here.

"You see?" Quintus finishes even though I haven't contributed anything.

Nevada's face reddens, but from anger rather than embarrassment if the set of her jaw means anything. I can't understand why she would feel offended, though. She doesn't strike me as the type that concerns herself with too much imagination. Not unlike Katniss. There's probably some subtext to their words that I'm not privy to, which is fine by me.

"The Underground functions because of years of practicality, _not_ frivolity," she scathes behind the safety of her crossed arms. "That is a trait of the Capitol, and the reason it's about to topple."

With that, the atmosphere chills down to winter frost. Quintus returns to his checklist with hooded eyes and a stiffness in his shoulders. I help Nevada stow our weapons and the few supplies they've allotted us. While I appreciate that someone on this team has a no-nonsense attitude, I find myself wondering if we can swap Nev out for Finnick. Or Haymitch even. The pilot and the soldier are hopeless. Any jealousy I bottled up toward Quintus after he spent the evening with Madge at the Broken Oar dissipates. I did him a service by not showing up. At least once, when Nev didn't show up, he had someone pleasant to talk to.

"Looks like someone's here to see you, Hawthorne," Nevada calls into the hatch area where I'm now huddled in the cramped cockpit, helping Quintus check gauges.

When I turn to look, I see Posy being hoisted into the fuselage by Nev herself. It's strange seeing her with a little kid. My sister scampers toward the cockpit and launches herself at me. The clipboard Quintus entrusted me to clatters onto the floor.

"Hey, kiddo," I say as she wrestles her arms around my neck. She looks cautiously at Quintus, who's intent on the flickering needles in front of him and the meter in his hands. "Does mom know you're up here?"

Posy ignores me and tugs my ear down to talk into it. "Can I say hello to him?" She doesn't bother to whisper and then points at Quintus's profile. His lips flicker up into a smile. It's impossible not to hear her, but he waits for her to make the first move.

"Go for it."

Posy squeezes between me and the pilot seat and stares at the side of Quintus's face. She's comes up to his shoulder when he's down on his knees. He turns to look at her with a question in his expression.

"Hi, mister," she chatters without a trace of bashfulness. "I like your face. You sparkle."

Quintus's face spasms like he's trying to keep the laughter inside. I don't think Capitol citizens get many compliments around here, particularly from the few sallow-skinned children I've seen.

Vick turns up next while Quintus and Posy develop a rapport centered around flattery and giggles.

"Mom's outside," he tells me, poking around the fuselage. It's different in the Besra-75 W2. "But she said I could look."

"Suit yourself," I tell him since Nevada hasn't said otherwise, then I vanish through the hatch. Before I get too far on the tarmac, I hear Vick's excited crow from the cabin. Quintus either handed him the meter or a box of hair dye. I shudder to think which, knowing Vick.

I see Mom first, talking to Nev, probably asking questions about the mission she doesn't think she'll get me to answer. Nev's face is expressionless, but she nods once or twice and answers with a calm, respectful tone. Very unlike the one she reserves for Quintus.

The rest of my crew, Rory, Bristel, and Madge stand off to the side, taking in the scope of the hangar and the view outside.

"Ready for takeoff?" Bristel asks when I approach. He's wearing the plain clothes we've all been issued. The only variation is a blue and silver band on his left arm, which signifies that he's been assigned for duty with the maintenance crews that work around the clock to keep the Underground from collapsing on our heads or backing up like a sewer. That suits him. Out of all the miners on our crew, he was the craftiest when it came to fixing our equipment.

He also likes filth.

"Just about," I answer him, though I'm looking at Madge, who's watching me. We've made a point of not saying goodbye over the last few days. It's like that game we used to play in the younger grades at school. Say the tag word and you had to give up a bead to whoever caught you saying it. The kid with the most beads at the end won.

We've run out of time on that game. Who will be the first to give up a bead?

Bristel wraps his arm around Madge's shoulders and tugs her close. Her eyelashes flutter like the action pulled her out of a daydream. "No worries, Hawthorne. I'll look after her," he says with a smirk, like he read my thoughts. He's up to his old antics.

_Good luck with that_, I think. She'd done a decent job looking after herself.

"Not with that look on your face, you won't," I grouse instead. Madge and Bristel exchange conspiratorial smiles, suggesting that I'm the sucker here. "Don't forget that Rory's here to keep an eye on you for me, Bristel," I pretend to warn.

"Huh?" Rory's dopey face barely registers. He's head's somewhere else.

We're interrupted when I feel gentle pressure on my shoulder.

"Well, I suppose this is it," says my mother. "Keep safe, Gale."

It's a silly thing to say. We both know it. Keeping safe would mean staying here. My job is to keep anything _but_ safe. She's my mother, though, so she has to say it anyway.

And I'm her son, so I promise that I will make safety a priority, even though it's a lie. I let her hug me even though I'm the only one on this team that has any family to coddle me, and should probably feel embarrassed by it. Nevada hangs around the fringe of my family circle, looking like she doesn't know what to do with herself while they wait for me. Joining Quintus in the hovercraft must be quite uncomfortable if she'd rather stay where she is. Quintus family must all still live in the Capitol. But I wonder where her parents are right now? If she has brothers or sisters? The Hawthornes must be making a real scene if the Rockbridge family doesn't think it's worth coming up to see Nevada off.

Doesn't matter. Family's supposed to embarrass you, even if her's doesn't. Rory and Bristel shake my hand. I remind my brother that he's in charge and to help mom out, while she's away herding the little ones out of the fuselage, followed by Quintus.

Mom pulls each of my teammates into her arms one at a time. It's a surprise to all three of us. Nevada looks stunned, but touched. Quintus murmurs his respects when Mom tells them to take care. He wraps his arm around Nev's neck and pulls her against his side while the three chat amicably. Unsure of what to do with her hands, Nev compromises by gripping the back of Quintus's jacket with one of her hands. I catch Madge's curious blue eyes watching them, probably realizing just who Nev is.

Vick unabashedly wraps his arms around my middle, dragging my thoughts closer to home. "Bye, Gale," he whimpers. I can hear that he's crying or about to.

"See you, little man," I say, gripping my sensitive kid brother close.

Vick pulls away after a moment and stares down at his shuffling feet. "Rory's going to be a pain in the butt when you're gone," he grumbles, trying to save face. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"Well, you know Rory's ticklish spots if he gets too annoying. And you can get Posy to help. He won't hit her." I remind Vick. His gap-toothed grin returns.

Then Madge lifts up Posy to hang around my neck. My ladies.

"You're going away?" Posy whines, just realizing what all this bustle's about. Her bottom lip puckers out.

"Just for a little bit," I tell her, poking her lip till she also smiles. "I have to go find a…friend."

Madge's eyebrow arches at my vocabulary, but she knows that my favorite terms for Mellark aren't suitable for a little girl's ears. Anyway, the "Posy" version sounds better, like going for a walk, like nothing could possibly go wrong. It'd be nice to live in a five-year-old kid's version of life again. Posy announces that she'll miss me then surrenders herself to Rory so that Madge and I can have a moment.

"Don't worry about Bristel," she murmurs, while she fixes my collar. It didn't need fixing. I'm tempted to mess it up though, just so I can keep smelling the soap she used this morning. Instead, my hands stay anchored to my sides, while we're under the watchful eye of my mother.

"Who's worried?" I growl, knowing Madge gets a strange kick out of teasing me over Bristel.

She smiles and pushes a yellow strand of hair behind her ear. "I have it on good authority that he's interested in a girl I know."

"You're turning into a gossip," I tease, remembering her story about the nurses.

"Oh, it's all very interesting." Madge rolls her eyes. "At least it keeps me from reflecting on other things."

Hell's teeth. My chest tightens some for the first time. I've been so busy with training I haven't had a chance to feel nervous about the mission, or the war at large. "Still having those premonitions?" I ask quietly so the kids don't hear.

A strangled attempt at a brave smile on Madge's pale face confirms it. I open my arms and she falls in.

"It's bad luck to talk like that before a battle," she sighs against my chest.

"Won't be much of a battle, Madge. We're just yanking Peeta out of there and flying home. Easy." I'm not sure what else to say that hasn't already been said to everyone else. And neither one of us wants to say goodbye. So, I kiss her hair and repeat what my mom said. "Well. Keep safe."

"We're not in the least bit of danger down here," Madge scoffs. "Just…come back soon."

She gazes up at me then with her lips parted. I take the bait. After all, in times like this we're better at kissing than talking. I can taste what she's feeling and know what she isn't willing to say.

I'm not paying attention to anything else for a while, until Madge suddenly steps back, her attention caught by something she sees behind me. I turn, still hanging on to her.

Katniss approaches with Haymitch. Her face is a nice shade of red, embarrassed by seeing Madge and I kiss, I guess. Truth is, I forgot about Katniss in all this, although I thought something was missing from this farewell party. Haymitch stops to talk with Quintus, but Katniss moves toward us still. Madge and I both know that our moment's over, regrettably, and she slips away to find our family.

I must be everyone's pillar today. As soon as I'm in reach, Katniss collapses into me. "I came to my senses this morning. I can't believe I'm asking you to do this," she mutters ruefully. "It should be Haymitch and I, not anyone else. It's our fault."

"I volunteered, Catnip. You two would kill each other long before you reached the Capitol," I point out, talking into her hair. She snorts in reply. "Do you have a message for Peeta?" I ask. "You know, something that won't nauseate me to repeat?"

Katniss half-smiles, half-flinches. "Stay alive." Then her voice breaks. "That's for both of you."

"Will do."

"Time's up," we hear Haymitch announce gruffly. "We have a show to ruin."

And then we're gone.

* * *

**TBC**

_Special thanks to Ceylon205 for beta and Geeky for suffering through the bottoms in the elevator scene. :D _

Anyway, I've set up a new poll on my profile. More out of curiosity than anything, do you think you'd still be up for Madge/Gale after MJ? I mean, _**I'm**_ sticking to my OTP, but I'm curious if anyone else is still interested.

p.s. blatant Jurassic Park and AC/DC refs. And probably many others. I can't keep track. :D


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N**: Oops, it's been a month and a half since I updated this story. Un. Heard. Of. Many thanks to Ceylon205 for beta-ing this epically long chapter.

Warning: Crude language ahead. Mind yer retinas.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

_Gale's POV

* * *

_

"Son of a bitch."

"You hanging in there, Hawthorne?" Quintus drawls over the string of curses running continually from my mouth as the ground closes over the hovercraft.

"Relax, Gale," says Nev calmly in the co-pilot seat.

My teeth grind in response. I don't like being underground. Didn't we just escape from there?

I hate being underground _in the dark_. Total darkness. But when a group of paranoid rebels, Avoxes, and their automatons tell you to power down your hovercraft or your guts will paint the inside of their bunker, you listen. We landed in a vale at the foot of the mountain range between us and the Capitol. Then the ground swallowed us up slowly – not the ground, but some platform engineered to resemble it, until we found ourselves settled in with no light to speak of. Well, not the kind that helps you see. Occasionally, and with no discernible pattern, a red laser light pulses from an unseen source.

Some robot woman sent the order for Quintus to shut down the hovercraft while we were scanned, x-rayed, whatevered, for threats. Now we're just waiting for clearance.

The sound of fabric rustling interrupts my cussing.

_"Move it or lose it, McFarlane," _Nevada snarls.

"As you wish," Quintus croons, after taking advantage of the darkness. "Future Mrs. McFarlane."

Nevada hisses something about remedial sexual harassment workshops. She's wasting her time. The more she pushes, the more McFarlane's hot on her trail. He's not a hunter in the way that I'm a hunter, but he's a man. We have similar instincts when it comes to girls.

They go back to doing whatever it is I can't see them doing, and I go back to swearing and gripping my armrests until my fingers stiffen into permanent claws. Waiting for the blackout to lift will be the hardest part of this mission. We made it to the vale using a cloaking device, but once we hit Capitol airspace, radars can detect the hovercrafts. In one of our quick and dirty training sessions we learned that a pissed off group of Capitol engineers, ex-Gamemakers usually, and escaped Avoxes banded together in an underground bunker, or tunnel. In the event that we are _not _proven to pose a threat, we'll travel through the Avox entrances to reach our destination: the Training Center.

I almost piss myself when the disembodies automaton speaks in the blackness.

_"No threat detected."_

"Tell us something we don't know, sugar lips," Quintus quips pleasantly.

_"Access granted. Proceed."_

Quintus plonks around on the control board and the Bezra lights up with a satisfied croon. The pilot pats the control panel.

One hurdle down. Rescuing Mellark will be cake.

We're only allowed to power lights. A large door slides into the ceiling. Then the mother of all conveyor belts groans to a start and we're dragged along the tunnel, which we can see for the first time. It looks like the inside of a stone intestine.

"This is pretty boring for Capitol ex-pat engineers," Quintus scoffs, while he fiddles with his radio. "Where are the anti-Snow murals? Where are the booby traps?"

"This isn't a jungle gym—"

Quintus gives her a pained look. "Darling, are you going to ruin this beautiful moment by speaking?" he replies sardonically.

"What moment?" she snaps back.

"Have you already forgotten our tryst in the dark?"

"You pinched my knee. That hardly qualifies as a _tryst_."

I wonder how Team Faylmitch is coping.

**...**

The tunnel ends in a cavern that lacks Thirteen's facade. The rock walls are completely exposed in all its lumpy, red-grey glory. The other hovercraft waits, as well as our contact team. I hurtle out of the hovercraft, all too happy to move. My teammates are more sedate. Together, we approach Haymitch and his team. We're joined by a group of men and women who are all dressed in the same grey, sack-like outfits. One man differentiates himself from the group by three red bands around his right arm. Gobo is his name. He greets Quintus like they've met before, addressing the pilot though he briefs us all.

"The recon group has moved in, and will provide cover while the two teams retrieve the targets," he says with a strange, clicky accent. "We've confirmed that our Capitol contacts have replaced strategic Peacekeepers who are supposed to maintain security. They have a gold stripe on the right arms of their uniforms, as will you." He looks at all of us. "Except the ones going in for the mental case girl." Finnick scowls. His eyes look green and venomous, but the man seems unfazed. "If you'll follow Mokey, he'll take you to a room where you may change into your uniforms."

In the chamber, we receive our garb. I accept a white uniform from a man with blue eyes and dark red hair. Reminds me of the boy and girl that Katniss and I didn't help. This man doesn't know about that, but it still makes it hard to look him in the eye. I'm relieved when he exits the chamber.

It takes Quintus a while to suit up, but his back's to us so I can't tell what he's trying to fool with on his Mockingjay suit. The rest of us are all ready to go and leave him to whatever's so important.

Outside, we're handed rifles, or in Finnick and Leo's case, small handguns they have to hide in their Avox garb. A minute later, Nevada follows us down the corridor to a rickety lift shaped like a cylinder. I shudder, but man up and step inside. When we reach the top of the line, we enter a utility room in what can only be described as a sewer.

"Home sweet home," Quintus mutters.

"You mean the Capitol?" Leo asks, gazing greenly at the bowels we're standing in.

Quintus shrugs and I have the feeling that he was being pretty specific about _home_ and this sewer. He leads us through the labyrinth with uncanny precision until we're climbing up a set of metal rungs and pushing up through a tile into a basement. The Training Center.

Er, the Training Center's storage room.

"That's a pile of broken battle axes isn't it?" I ask Quintus as the florescent lights flicker and emit unfortunate _dzzt_ sounds.

"Grab a souvenir on your way out," he replies.

We follow Haymitch around stacks of boxes and broken junk once used for training until the room ends at a door. "Don't wait for either team," he says as he grabs the knob. The door screeches in protest when he throws his weight against it, which I guess is a good thing. Not a lot of use lately. "Grab Annie or Peeta and get out."

Once we gain the stairwell, Team Faylmitch and Team McHawtrock go our separate ways.

A wall of clamoring voices pushes against us as we march into the glass atrium. People everywhere - at least I think they're people. It's hard to tell with the whiskers and feathers. Peacekeepers form small knots of security throughout the expansive marble and glass room, while civilians in their crazy costumes parade around and fill the room with their noise. It gives me the _skeeves_, being here on the inside of the Training Center, in the heart of the Capitol. Not looking through a camera transmitting the images to our television back home.

Through the enormous glass facade, I can see an empty platform, fitted with sound equipment and a podium. A crowd and TV crews are already gathered around the horse-shoe shaped drive. Beyond, the city bursts skyward in glass, metal, and stone spikes. Our Justice Building has nothing on the scope of the skyscrapers here. All of them standing up like rainbow dominoes. I wonder what it'd take to topple them.

My thoughts are immediately drawn away by the arrival of someone whose evil still dogs me like the scars on my back.

Head Peacekeeper Thread. And he's looking right at me.

A shiver and a cold trickle of sweat run down my spine. Alarm paralyzes my reflexes, though my brain shouts _Hide!_

Thread is the only man I've ever feared. Sure, the Capitol thinks we're all dogs, but Thread whipped us like we were. He stood between me and the mines and the forest - he could've kept my family from eating till they were skin and bones if it hadn't been for the gifts from Katniss. I had illusions of invincibility like any guy my age, but Thread set the record straight with nearly forty lashes of his whip.

"You there!" Thread barks at Quintus, overlooking me. He fixates on the gold bands on Quintus's uniform. Thread's are blood red. "You're not from my outfit."

Quintus steps forward and slashes two fingers down his forehead in respect and Nev and I quickly follow suit. But Thread doesn't give us the time of day; he's only interested in the man in charge. _He doesn't recognize me_. I can hardly believe it. You'd think beating someone to the brink of death would somehow chisel that poor bastard into your brain. Would I forget Liquor's face? Not in a million years. Although we're saved because Thread doesn't know my face - I hate him for forgetting.

"I am Peacekeeper Brutus. We serve under Head Peacekeeper Cassius. He sent us to reinforce security."

Thread steps closer and every nerve orders me to step back. But I hold my ground and try not to flinch. The man's shorter than I am. Close-cropped hair reveals age spots on his meaty skull. His body's straight as a rod, but it's not necessarily stronger than mine. In a fair fight, I might be able to take him. When he doesn't have the advantage of a squad of Peacekeepers, my wrists bound to a stake, and a whip to do his dirty work. I'd kick his ugly face in and tear him to pieces with my own hands.

"Oh, Cassius thinks we need help, huh?" he growls.

"On the contrary, Head Peacekeeper, he seems to think that _we_," Quintus gestures toward us, "are getting fat."

Thread accepts this, as long as the insult rests on us rather than him. "Well, hustle outside. Reinforce crowd control," he grunts. His barking evil laugh carries across the room. Then it stops abruptly and his eyes pin me.

I gulp while he studies my face and uniform. His face twists with disgust. This is it. I've blown our cover. From the corner of my eye, I can see Nevada and Quintus's stoic expressions, while they try not to give anything away.

Thread's boots are nearly toe-to-toe with mine. I can smell his putrid breath and his black eyes drilling into me. "Peacekeeper Atellus," he sneers. "Get a haircut."

What? It takes a second to realize that there's a name tag sewn into the uniform just above my left breast pocket. My chest deflates after releasing the breath I've been holding. "Yes, sir."

Threads backs off and dismisses us. Then he lowers his voice so the civilians don't hear, grinning smugly. "Mind the sharpshooters, now."

My relief dies in a millisecond. Nev glances anxiously at Quintus. Sharpshooters? Great.

Quintus leads us out of the atrium through small side doors leading into the square outside of the Training Center. The podium I saw through the main glass doors falls to our left and we have to push through the crowd gathering outside in order to get closer to the side of the stage. Peacekeepers push the crowd back as well as they can, to keep the path from the Training Center doors to the podium clear.

All four sides of the square have been fitted with large projector screens, and a speaker system dominates the space at the front of the stage.

"What are the odds that any of those gunmen Thread mentioned are ours?" I ask, trying to spot Peacekeepers with gold bands around their arms.

Quintus peers at the upper stories of the Training Center in case the sharpshooters are roosting in the windows. There's nothing to see. "You want to talk about odds at a time like this?"

"Not really."

"Look," Nev hisses.

A projected image of Panem's seal appears on all of the screens. Quintus and I reach for our hearts. Nev clumsily follows our lead. The doors roll open on gold runners. Armed Peacekeepers file in pairs toward the platform, their boots stomping harshly on the flagstones. The formation splits around each side until they surround the perimeter. Then a cluster of four more Peacekeepers march forward at a statelier gait and my heart jumps into my throat. They all bear gold bands on their right arms. And in the center of our comrades limps Peeta Mellark.

**...**

Peeta's eyes are black and blue bruises against his pasty, sunken skin. They fixate on the podium, like that's his final resting place and he's waited too long to embrace it. He never looked like much, but now he appears like a skull and two crookedly crossed bean poles. For a second I reconsider my promise to Katniss to bring him back. Kid looks nuts. I guess we'll find out for sure once he opens his mouth.

My hands become clammy from nerves, waiting for the moment when we move in. The non-absorbent material of the Peacekeeper uniform doesn't help me at all. My gun fits uncomfortably in my slick hands. I don't like all the unpredictable elements of this mission, and so much of our success depends on how Peeta plays things right now.

Peeta reaches the podium. I take stock of the fact that the inner circle of soldiers are our own. But what about the circle of Capitol-sworn men and women standing between us and Mellark?

A flourish announces the anthem, which is piped in from some unseen location. I can't see a piece of brass anywhere. When the anthem comes to a close, Peeta clears his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Panem," he says. His voice sounds too lowly for the ceremonious words I recognize from reading the script a few days ago. "A terrible thing has occurred. Many of you remember the confusion when the Third Quarter Quell suddenly ended in explosions." Peeta pauses and has to collect himself. Behind me, a group of women start wailing. "Every year before the reaping, our elders read the Treaty of Treason. We're told the Hunger Games are a memorial for the darker days of the past, and to teach the people of the districts about the horrible cost of war," he says. Then his demeanor changes. His eyes leave the script and I've got a bad feeling in my gut that he's going to do exactly what I thought he might do. "Well, the people haven't learned," his voice swells with anger, "haven't learned to accept the deaths of their children. Insupportable work conditions. Hunger. Cruel taskmasters and torture. And I'm here to tell you, citizens of the Capitol, that rebels didn't kill Katniss." He points at the crowd, who haven't quite caught on to the direction of Peeta's words. "You did - along with your Pres-"

A painful reverb sounds from the microphone. Peeta's lips still move, finishing his sentence, but his voice isn't piping through the sound system. A screwy kind of triumphant smile lights up his face when he realizes. He lifts the three middle fingers of his left hand and touches them to his lips. Whether the farewell is for himself or for Katniss, I can't tell.

"He just publicly challenged Snow…is your friend suicidal?" Nevada asks as the projector screens in the square cut to black. Confusion sweeps through the crowd and people start to push into us to get closer to the stage.

"Sounds like it," I growl as we surge forward with the circle of Peacekeepers to intercept Peeta, who has casually turned and limped away from the podium.

To my surprise, Quintus cuts around Peeta and the cluster of Peacekeepers with the gold bands, heading straight for the side doors we used earlier. He gestures for us to follow, pushing through as best we can, though that means losing Peeta to the Peacekeepers. Dashing behind the rows of pillars, Quintus skirts around an information booth, grabs at one of the large vases on the counter, then slides into the men's bathroom. Nevada balks at the door, but he grabs her hand, and I push her through.

"What are we doing?"

"Two entrances," Quintus barks unhelpfully.

We run down the line of empty stalls; everyone was outside for Peeta's speech. The wall opens up to a doorless arch: the second entrance. We run through the other side and crash into the back of Quintus, who unexpectedly stops. "Flank me," he orders.

We do, and then match his stately pace around the other side of the bathroom, back into the open space of the atrium like we just arrived on this floor, rather than having come from watching the speech. Now I understand the illusion Quintus wanted to create.

We're barely in time. Peeta's gold-banded escort has him by both arms, marching him toward the lifts.

If they recognize our matching armbands, they don't show it.

**...**

"Something's not right," I hiss under my breath. Nev dips her head in assent, looking grim.

Quintus stops in front of the entourage, blocking their way. "Thank you, gentlemen, we'll take over from here."

"Who the hell are you?" Ask the largest of the Peacekeepers. He looks like a Capitol lapdog, complete with tribal warrior markings and a pug nose.

"Never mind that, my lad," says Quintus genially. "We're here to collect Victor Mellark."

The pug-nosed Peacekeeper gets in Quintus's face. "I haven't received any orders about a transfer."

While Quintus argues with the Peacekeeper, I catch Peeta's eyes. He doesn't blink. I can't tell if he recognizes me. Not that I've changed much. Except for the uniform.

Quintus produces a rose from his sleeve, which he must have grabbed from the vase, and I figure he's killed us all with his flair for the absurd. "Do you know what this is?" he ask.

The Peacekeepers give Quintus a look like he must be joking. But when keeps waiting for them, someone mutters, "A rose."

"Precisely, my dull friends," Quintus scathes. "A token from the President himself. We're to take charge of the boy, and deliver him to our esteemed leader."

The Peacekeeper shifts his weight. "Well..."

"Oh, go ahead and argue with me," says Quintus airily. "Enjoy it while you can. After you keep the President waiting, it'll be the last chance you'll get." He makes a slicing gesture with his fingers over his lips.

The Peacekeepers shove Peeta at us, not relishing the idea of becoming Avoxes. Quintus throws the rose at Nev while we lunge to catch Peeta beneath the armpits and try not to hit him, or ourselves, with our guns. Nevada takes them out of our hands so we can steady Peeta while his old escort files back outside.

"How long does this give us?" Nev whispers.

"Not long enough, my pretties. Time to hustle," Quintus orders.

"Gale?" Peeta coughs, bending at the middle. "What is this?"

Nevada steps toward him and rolls up her sleeve. She turns the underside of her arm so Peeta can see what's tattooed on the inside of her wrist: a mockingjay in flight.

"Katniss?" Peeta chokes. The skin around his eyes tightens and I feel his chest spasm.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo." Quintus beams with something like glee, suddenly oblivious to Peeta. His hold loosens as he reaches for Nev's inked wrist.

_"Quintus!" _Nev hisses as Peeta starts to fall.

"Whoa, steady, mate."

People are staring at our commotion, and especially at Peeta. We need to get out of here. The atrium's filling up with Capitol citizens tired of waiting in the square. And who knows how long before Peeta's guard decides to contact Thread to verify Quintus's fake orders?

"Come on, dough boy," I huff, throwing his arm around my shoulder and hefting him up with Quintus on the other side. Even with the two of us, the kid's pretty solid. I guess they didn't stop feeding him.

"Pet names?" he replies through gritted teeth, like he's in pain. "You haven't even rescued me yet."

"I haven't lost a damsel yet," I grunt.

"I'd hate to break your record."

"If you do, I'll kill you."

This is how it could have been if we'd ever gotten to talking in District 12. And if the Quarter Quell hadn't come up. And if I hadn't hated him so much for stealing Katniss. But Nevada puts an end to the banter when she gives me a reproachful glance. Whatever. A few months ago I would have gladly left Mellark here to rot. I think he can handle some ribbing from someone who's an uncomfortable fit between a friend and a rival.

Nevada leads us back through the Avox entrance, the set of corridors that will eventually take us down to the basement. Peeta stumbles a few times, like he can't really command his feet. I knew the kid was sloppy in the woods, but this is ridiculous.

"Help us out, Mellark," I badger.

"It's the morphling," he says. "It hasn't worn off yet."

"Morphling?" I ask.

"I've been electrocuted twice...and uh, they didn't want me to go anywhere." He adds tiredly, "Not that I had anywhere to go."

"What," I say, pulling his arm higher around my shoulder, "did you think we were going to leave you here?"

"Haymitch left me to die before." Peeta's boiling on the inside, I can see that plainly. But he deflates quickly. "It doesn't matter. After today, I figured the Capitol wouldn't have any more use for me. I thought I was done." Done as in dead.

"Sorry to burst your bubble," I mutter, remembering one thing I definitely don't like about Mellark, whether he's with Katniss or not. He's a fatalistic prig. "Although, they might still get a chance to kill you at this point."

"You don't get it, Gale," Peeta mumbles. "Just don't tell me I've failed. Tell me Katniss is alive."

"You think saving your butt was _my _idea?" I shoot back. If that's not a clue, I don't know what is.

A triumphant glow washes over his face. For a second I'm kind of happy for him. Just for a second. The sound of hastily stomping boots drumming over the marble floors brings us up short.

"That, my friends, is the sound of pursuit," Quintus drawls.

"It's a bloody labyrinth down here," Nev mutters, shouldering the other rifles by their straps so that she can use her own. She takes the rear, prepared to defend us against the Peacekeepers who could appear at any moment. "At least we have cover."

"The stairs aren't far from here," Quintus says. Despite the reassurance, he looks grim. All of these hallways should connect to the one with the stairwell, no matter what route. Unfortunately, that means we still have to get there before the Peacekeepers do.

We scurry through the corridor as quickly as Peeta's hobble will allow, dodging down hallways, using the corners as cover. All the while, the tramp of feet gets closer and closer. Nev asks if we can piggy-back him, but I have no desire to keep falling on my face under Peeta's dead weight like Odair. Sweat's already trickling down my back. Peeta's no Posy. He's trying as best he can to command his legs and match our gait.

The bullet that lodges into the wall next to my head sends a pretty clear message that it's not enough. I have to blink the drywall dust from my eyes. Some of it's stuck in my throat, making me cough. Nevada fires a round at the Peacekeepers, now visible behind us. They answer with more bullets.

Someone barks an order to keep moving forward, release another volley. It's Thread. Here in this corridor. Dogging me again. Another volley of bullets pockmark the walls, ricochets off the floor. I feel a bullet clip my arm, followed by burning pain. We struggle through another corridor.

"Where are the damn stairs?" Nevada hollers amidst the clangor of guns.

Then Peeta lurches. A mangled cry of pain catches in his throat. We have to stop. Peeta's flat on the ground, bleeding from the back of his thigh where one of the Peacekeepers got him.

"Pick him up," Quintus orders. "There's a utility closet ahead we can use."

This time we have to drag Peeta the fifteen yards to where a door knob stands out from the white walls. The metal door is locked, of course, but Nevada uses the butt of her rifle to put an end to that. The door swings open and we slide Peeta inside. When I stand up straight again, my muscles scream at me for rest. We're all taking quick, shallow breaths; red-faced, and sweaty. But the Peacekeepers aren't relenting. Quintus and Nevada use the door as a shield and try to pick off Peacekeepers, who are rapidly falling upon our refuge. Bullets fly off the steel, leaving indents as round as the tip of my thumb on our side of the door.

We settle Peeta against the wall, pushing aside a mop and buckets. Maybe we should roll him over on his stomach to see the wound? I don't know. I'm not a medic.

"Katniss isn't here? She's safe?" he gasps between breaths. He's bleeding out and he's still worried about _her_. Man, she's safe in the Underground. We're the ones in the Capitol getting mowed down by the bad guys.

"Don't bleed to death and you'll find out," I gripe, searching the closet for something to use to staunch the blood.

A sliver of a smile briefly threads across his face, but it's broken off by a grimace. "Too bad they didn't aim lower," he chokes out.

I pull up the leg of his pants to see what he means, revealing his high-tech and shiny peg leg. "Hell's teeth," I mutter under my breath as blood pools beneath him. "You're one unlucky bastard."

Peeta snorts, nostrils flaring while he tries to ignore the pain.

Quintus stops firing. "Nev, take a look at Peeta's leg," Then he says to me, with a mischievous glint in his eye, "She has some basic medical training."

I trade places with her, accepting my gun back. She has Peeta lean on his hip so she can see where the wound is.

"Peeta, my name's Nevada. We're taking you to Thirteen," she introduces herself while she probes the wound. She doesn't look very long before she mentions making a tourniquet.

"Wonderful," Peeta mutters. That's how he lost the bottom half of his leg.

"Someone want to donate their sleeve?" she asks when I can't find anything clean to use for rags.

I jab my thumb at the inside of the closet, volunteering Quintus. "I want my turn to shoot."

Quintus fires one last parting round and switches places with me. "Strip me down," he says, handing her his knife. Nev ignores him.

"It didn't take them long to find us," Nev murmurs worriedly while she helps him cut away his sleeve for a makeshift bandage. "It's almost as if-"

"They expected us?" he finishes.

She nods. "Yeah."

I hear Peeta mumble that he still has his tracker chip in his arm, but that brings us back to another problem.

"What happened to our double agents?" Nev asks. "The ones who are supposed to cover us? How did Capitol men get those armbands?"

Quintus frowns, and says in a low voice, "Our double-crossers crossed us, or they weren't savvy enough."

That's not something any of us want to think about. It's bad enough if they're dead, and even worse if they betrayed us to the Capitol. This whole operation could be a trap.

We need supplies before we can make it back to the hovercrafts. Peeta's bleeding too much and it's leaving a trail. Add that to the tracking chip in his arm and we couldn't be more obvious to find. And what makes matters worse, we're leading the enemy right into our comrades' bunker.

Better make the best of every shot, then. I risk a look around the door, even as bullets _ping_ off of it and blow holes in the drywall. The Peacekeepers have formed ranks and take turns firing at our pathetic excuse for a shield. I wonder how long it'll take the idiots to figure out they can come around the hallways and get us. Anyway, it's going to be like Quintus said. Getting in was the easy part. Getting out...sucks.

I take another quick look and my eyes light on that silver head again. Thread's still here, smugly calling orders and bullying his Peacekeepers to take down the door. Hatred flares up in my chest and my vision fills with red. I want to finish this mission. I want to see my family and girlfriend. I want to keep my promise to my best friend. Thread's been a thorn in my side since the day he took up as Head Peacekeeper. Now he's pissing me off.

"Hey, Thread!" I bellow over the cracking report of their rifles.

Everything and everyone goes silent. Over my shoulder, Nev and Quintus look at me with confusion all over their faces. Only Peeta has a look of comprehension over his ashen face.

"You called, criminal?" Thread's gravely voice carries down the corridor.

Criminal? Yeah, sounds like me. I gripe around the door, "You called me that the first time we met."

"So, we've met?" he chuckles, amused. That pisses me off more.

"We've met. You left your mark on me."

There's a moment of silence. I see Peeta looking at me quizzically. "Let me guess...the ratty kid from the Seam?" Thread says. "I should have killed you then and saved us both the trouble now."

"Maybe you should've," I shout. With that, I round the door and fire three surefire rounds right in the direction of his voice, the sensitive hunter instincts taking over.

One bullet for Darius. One for myself. One for Twelve.

While his Peacekeepers process what has happened, Head Peacekeeper Thread collapses before a death rattle can tremble through his throat. Still, I have barely enough time to jump back behind the door before the report of rifles fills the air again.

"Oops," I mumble as the stomp of their boots signals that the Capitol's hounds are after us again.

Quintus barks orders at us, and next thing I know, he's pushing Peeta up, and shoving him at Nevada and me. "Get going," he says, taking up Nevada's rifle, as well as his own. "I'll cover."

We hug the wall as best as we can, staying within the shield of the door. The end of the corridor is in sight, but already the bullets are flying past us. A shatteringly loud clanging announces the fall of our door.

Behind us, Quintus fires his rifles and swears.

Nev's ear bleeds where a bullet grazed her. My arm burns, and Peeta's leaving a bloody trail behind us when we reach the door to the stairwell. We drag Peeta over the threshold, which Quintus slams the door shut behind us. He shoots the handle off, hopefully locking the Peacekeepers out for a short while.

Quintus collapses against the door. _"Zounds!"_ he shouts into the quiet space, wiping the sweat from his brow. "We have to get that tracker chip out," he tells us. "We can't lead them to the bunker or it'll mean the deaths of all our allies down there. Get him to the basement. You'll be safest there. Then get rid of that chip."

"What about you?" Nevada asks suspiciously.

"I'll hold them off," he says with his signature smirk. "Make a real mess of the scum."

"How?" I want to know. With two guns and a door?

Quintus unzips his pants right there in front of us, pulling out two grenades. Peeta curses out of surprise. Nevada gapes at Quintus's pants. "Don't worry, love." He winks at her. "The rest is all real." Nev makes a series of odd, choking sounds, her face turning crimson while he zips himself back up. "Now, get out of here and remember what Haymitch said," he orders.

What Haymitch said? Whatever. Nevada's red face registers that she understands. "Hopefully it won't come to that."

Before Quintus can respond to that bit of wistfulness, the door shudders as rifles pounds against it. "Get out of here."

We drag Peeta up again and hasten down the stairs.

**...**

Peeta's grey-faced by the time the stairwell bottoms out and we've reached the basement. The door squeals in protest like it did the first time. I help him through, boots scraping over the rough concrete.

"Take out the chip," he reminds me. Peeta settles non-too-gently on the floor, collapsing wearily against a stack of crates.

I pull out my knife and hand it over to Nev, remembering that Quintus said she has a medical background. But she eyes the hilt warily, looking shaky for a soldier at the prospect of digging it out herself.

"Problem?" I ask.

"Wrapping wounds is one thing." She gags.

I keep the knife. "Forget it," I tell her. "I've wanting to do something like this for a while now."

"Can't we take a vote?" Peeta gripes weakly. "No wait, I'll stay here...just let me bleed to death."

"Nope. Sorry, dough boy."

Peeta sighs, then probes his upper arm with shaky fingers until he feels the tell-tale lump. "It's here," he murmurs breathlessly. "Just don't carve your initials or anything."

"Huh." I make an incision the width of Madge's pinky nail and dig for it with the knife tip. Peeta makes a pained noise through his nose. "Too much for you?" I ask lightly, though the lack of color on his face isn't anything to joke about.

"Why?" he says through gritted teeth as blood trickles slowly down his arm. "Are you taking it easy on me?"

"Maybe." I twist the knife a hair and the tracker cuts loose. Peeta grunts from the pain. "Maybe not."

I hold the knife out to Peeta, showing him the chip and the bits of flesh stuck to it. He barely blinks at the gore.

"How's your leg, Peeta?" Nevada asks from where she's standing guard by the door. "We need to keep moving-"

Two thunder-claps snatch away the rest of her sentence. We eye each other uncertainly, then all gazes land on the door to the stairwell. A tremor shakes the boxes, sounding like a long roll of thunder over an open plain. A crate crashes down on our heads. Nevada braces herself against the wall. The lights flicker out.

Stumbling and cursing, Nevada finds us. I drop the knife and kick the fallen crate out of the way so we can get Peeta up, whether his leg can handle it or not. By the time he's hanging on our shoulders, a set of blue emergency lights come on, giving us just enough visibility to find the entrance to the underground lair around the piles of junk.

Pounding footsteps reverberate through the stairwell just as Nev pries open the trap door of the sewer. Voices call out to each other and the beam of a flashlight passes through us.

"Quintus?" I wonder out loud.

"No time to find out," Nevada says, shoving me through the hole. I barely have time to grip the metal rungs buried into the concrete. "You'll have to catch Peeta."

She barely waits for my boots to touch bottom before she sends Peeta falling through the hole. He knocks me off my feet.

"Good catch," he groans, blinking in the new light of the sewer. He lifts a hand to cover his eyes, but it falls limp on his chest.

"Shut up."

"Get him to the lift," Nevada orders when her lower body appears on the ladder. The heavy trap door clangs shut overhead while she scuttles down.

I get up but when I try to help Mellark, he doesn't respond.

Together, Nev and I drag his solid carcass across the metal floor of the sewer. It seems like ages before we make it to the lift that will plunge us even further below the earth. When the doors slide together and the car begins to shake its way downward, I wonder if anyone will be able to patch up Mellark, maybe get the bullet out before we leave? But I can't think ahead any further than that. In a second, Peacekeepers could descend on us or Peeta's feeble pulse could give out all together. We cut out the chip, but we left a blood trail for them to follow. I've never been this clumsy on a hunt before. I hate to think of what this means for the folks living down here.

The doors open on a scene of chaos. Men and women run around the corridors, in and out of chambers, calling out to each other. They stop when we appear.

"An explosion in the Training Center-" someone half-asks, half-tells us. "Are Peacekeepers coming here?"

"We don't know," Nevada snaps, pushing through the crowd. I'm grateful for her no-nonsense attitude. "We've got a wounded boy to take care of."

**...**

Leo waves at us when we reach the tarmac. His lips move, while he points at each of us with his finger. His frown tells me that he's counting us and coming up short. I look away. He's a good friend of Quintus's and I don't want to watch him realize the pilot hasn't returned with us.

Haymitch is nowhere to be seen, but Finnick's already made it back. He dabs at a bloody lip while he bends over a young woman in a nightgown. She glances nervously around her. Annie. He's holding her wrist like she might bolt and talking softly to her, but if she's registering it's hard to tell by the glazed look in her eyes.

"Put me down!" A piercing shriek cuts through the cavern behind us. I feel the muscles in my back tighten painfully at the sound. "Damn you, Haymitch!"

Haymitch jogs, purple-faced, over the tarmac with a slim, bedraggled woman with auburn hair, tossed over his shoulder. Her fists pound his back.

He slaps her bum. "Shut your noise, woman. Do you want to go back to jail?"

The woman pushes her hair out of her face and glares daggers at the back of Haymitch's skull. _Effie Trinket! _No wonder he wouldn't say anything about his special mission. We'd have locked him in the brig. Only Finnick doesn't look surprised.

Haymitch passes all of us up and tosses Effie into the fuselage, then backs out so Finnick can hand his girlfriend up to Leo, still murmuring something to her.

"Well? Didn't stick to the script, did he?" Haymitch barks when we finally reach their Bezra. It's not much of a greeting between the former mentor and tribute, but that's Haymitch's way. We lay Peeta down on the ground, too tired to lift him up just yet. Haymitch kneels next to him on the ground. "Hanging in there?"

"Trying," Peeta whispers with his eyes closed. Then they open, and the manic gleam that they had while he walked to the podium returns. "I killed Brutus," he chokes.

"I know, son," Haymitch replies gruffly, though he gently pushes Peeta's hair out of his eyes. Like he's his father or something. An odd scene, needless to say.

Nevada steps toward Haymitch and poses a problem I hadn't considered yet. "We don't have a pilot. I know there's only four passenger seats in your hovercraft, but we don't have any other option."

Haymitch gives a curt nod. "Get on, then. It'll be a snug ride."

I balk, then pull Nevada aside. "We're not going to give Quintus ten more minutes to show?" I challenge in an undertone.

Nevada rings her hands, then catches herself and holds her arms stiffly at her side. "We have to leave him, Gale," she says, her voice tight.

"You're okay with that?

It's a rhetorical question, but she snaps back an answer just the same. "Orders are orders. No waiting...and we're down a pilot." She gulps compulsively. Nev doesn't look like she believes even herself. I start to ask, but she's covers her face. "How else will we get home if he doesn't come?"

"I don't know, maybe it's just a feeling," I tell her, "but I think if we waited he'd come."

Her face closes off. "If he's alive, then he'll still have a hovercraft," she reasons. "We can't risk it, though."

"What if he's wounded and can't fly?"

"Gale, you saw the grenades. You heard the explosions," Nevada hisses, gesturing wildly across the cavern. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with emotion. "The odds of him surviving that are nil."

I know a thing or two about odds, and I have to say that I have a pretty good track record. "Ten more minutes," I grouse.

"Get in the hovercraft, soldier," she orders. "We have our target. It's time to get him home before he bleeds to death."

"Yeah," I mutter, shouldering past her. "That would make Quintus's sacrifice pretty pointless."

The stricken look on her face makes me regret the jibe, but only a little.

**…**

Finnick helps us stretch Peeta out on the fuselage aisle floor after takeoff when it's clear that he can't hold himself up in the seat. It's a tight squeeze between the two rows of seats where we crouch over him. I cut away the top of his left pant-leg and Quintus's bloody sleeve, revealing the bullet wound. The flesh around the hole is sticky with blood. A few inches toward the inside of his thigh, a long, white scar where Cato cut him stands out on his greying skin.

Finnick pats the unconscious Peeta on the shoulder, looking over the damage. "I don't think God meant for you to have this leg, my friend." Then he glances up at me. "Dig the bullet out?"

"You want to poke around in his leg? All we have in the kit is a pair of tweezers, a few pills for headaches, band-aids and two rolls of gauze. No antiseptic."

"You have a point," says Finnick. "We can do something for the pain, at least." Finnick scoots around so he can stand up, the he pokes his head in between the pilot seats, where Leo, Haymitch and Effie sit. "You'll have to give it up, Haymitch."

"Like hell," Haymitch snarls.

"All right. Let him suffer." Finnick shrugs. "But Katniss will be your problem, then."

"Give it to them, Haymitch," says Effie waspishly from her uncomfortable position on his lap. "You're not drinking for a _very long time_."

A look of regret passes over Haymitch's face. Whether it's the thought of relinquishing his precious booze or for rescuing Effie Trinket from jail, I don't know. He pops out a floor tile between the seats, dejectedly producing a bottle of white liquor.

"You can't have alcohol on a mission!" Nevada scolds from her seat in the back, next to Finnick's dazed girlfriend.

"Team leader can do whatever the hell he wants," Haymitch grouses back.

"At least we can use this to clean the tweezers," says Nevada, though nobody's very keen on the idea of picking that sucker out.

"Actually, I think the liquor will do more good_ inside_ of Peeta, than outside," says Finnick, cracking open the seal. "Better wake him up."

**...**

Peeta snores through the remaining hours of our flight. It didn't take much white liquor to knock him out...after he agreed to drink it. Or submitted to brute force, depending on how you look at it. Finnick loses interest in Peeta once it seems he's out of pain, and returns to Annie's side. Nevada switches seats so she's next to me on the other side of the aisle. She looks ready to fall asleep.

"Your ear's still bleeding," I tell her.

Nevada's hand reaches for her ear, then feels the blood dried in her hair on down her neck. She pulls her hand away and looks at the mess there. "I didn't notice." She sighs. "How's your arm? You should put some gauze on that."

"It's only a scratch." Not like after the firebombing and the trees turned my arm into a pincushion.

"Look, Gale," she whispers urgently. "I didn't want to leave Quintus behind either." She stops and takes a shaky breath. "We have...had a bad rapport, but," she stops long enough to control the quiver in her bottom lip, "...I wish there had been another option."

"Forget it," I mumble uncomfortably. The reality that the charismatic Quintus isn't here with us, one of the first people I met when we were rescued, hasn't settled on me yet. I get where she's coming from. I called him a Capitol tool for the majority of our acquaintance, but he's all right. "Orders, right?"

"Yeah." Nev frowns deeply at her hands in her lap. "Orders."

The conversation takes a nosedive after that. Fine. I'm too beat to want to talk to anyone. Through the window, I watch the ground skim away below us, odd green and gold checkerboard patterns; rough ridges and mountain spines; and grey-blue spills of water reflecting the darkening sky.

"We've reached Thirteen's airspace, folks," Leo announces. "I sorta thought we'd hear from base by now, but who knows."

"Did you try to radio them?" Nevada asks, crouching behind Haymitch's seat, as if she could see the airwaves from that position.

Leo hesitates. "Yeah...but they didn't respond."

"Why wouldn't they respond?" I ask.

Nevada cries out.

"Now, it's not something to panic about, necessarily," Leo tries to placate, taking his eyes off the sky to look at her stricken face.

But I follow her line of vision, realizing that she's not thinking about the radio. The clear sky over Thirteen's young forest pops as a fleet of hovercrafts materialize out of thin air.

Leo swears. The skyline shifts abruptly as Leo cuts to the side, avoiding a collision with one of the Capitol hovercrafts. The movement sends Peeta rolling into the seat legs. He hits his head and it wakes him up. Nobody offers him a hand though.

We watch helplessly as the bombs drop from the hatches of the enemy aircraft, exploding in orange flashes. Black smoke rises out of the trees below us. The line of fire draws closer to the mouth of the Underground and I'm suddenly reminded of Madge's premonitions. She was afraid of what would happen in the Capitol – we never considered that the Capitol would swoop in while we were away.

"Everyone, hold onto your seats," Leo grinds out when the enemy fire begins to direct at us. "We're out of here."

Peeta pulls himself up next to me. "What's happening?" Nobody answers. Peeta struggles to balance himself, then his hand shoots out, fisting the fabric of my uniform, forcing me to face his hard eyes. "Tell me."

I wrestle my collar out of the surprisingly strong grip for someone who should be skunked. "We can't get in. District 13 is under siege."

* * *

**TBC!**

**A/N:** Sesame Street. Fraggles. I haz no shame. Oh, and before I forget: *cruel chuckle*

Also, I am assuming that Peeta's amputated leg is the same one that Cato cut. However, he lost his leg because of the injuries he sustained from the mutts and Katniss's tourniquet, not from Cato's wounding him. The way I understanding (correct me if I'm wrong), tourniquets are dangerous because they stop the flow of blood from a wound (used to keep the wounded from bleeding out), and if used too long, the tissues will die. That's why they had to give Peeta a pirate leg.


	13. Chapter 13

Alright, kiddies. Here's the next chapter. FYI, I am on a fanfiction hiatus for NaNoWriMo from now on. That means no more posting until December. Sorry! But I will be working on a story about Quintus and Nevada…cool, right? We'll see.

If you want to know what's going on, you can follow me on Twitter or follow the link in my profile to a blog, entitled Quintadalove, where I'll post teasers for the story I'm writing.

Cheers, MS

p.s. _Ic þancie þē, beta-min. _All the remaining typos are mine. :P

* * *

**Chapter 13**

_Madge's POV_

It was only a matter of time before the Capitol would retaliate. That's what the officials said when the broadcast of Peeta's speech was cut. We were sent back to our quarters without any word on the rescue team's progress. If they were even alive.

The first tremors shake the bunker. Lights flicker. My body seems to recognize the sensation of shells battering from overhead before my mind processes it. Hazelle hustles Rory, Posy, and Vick together in the front room between the couch and the coffee table while I search for a flashlight or candles in the kitchen.

Someone comes by, pounding down our door.

My first assumption is that it's Katniss. Or Bristel, maybe.

Hazelle answers the door. Outside, the corridors writhes with rushing men and women. People who didn't get the memo to batten down until further notice is given.

And it's not Katniss standing on the threshold. Two Mockingjay soldiers step inside without an invitation, quickly sweeping the small suite with their eyes. One carries a gun, the other an electronic tablet.

"Hawthorne quarters?" the tableted one asks Hazelle stiffly.

"Yes," Hazelle answers hesitantly. I wonder if by the rigid set of her shoulders, if she's wondering the same thing as me – if they're here to tell us that the rescue has failed after all, and that Gale is…I can't even think the word in my head. "Do you know what's happening? Is there news about the rescue?"

The soldiers look reluctant to talk. The one with the gun says, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't know about the mission. No word has come in."

"What about the tremors?" she persists.

"We're still awaiting official reports," he hedges.

"Those are bombs," Rory grumbles loud enough for them to hear. "We're from District 12. We remember what it's like."

"Ahem, yes." Not looking up from his tablet, the soldier addresses Hazelle again, "Ma'am, we're conscription officers. Code 451 states that in times of crisis, each family must provide at least one able-bodied man or woman, aged 15 or older, for the protection of the domicile."

"A draft?" she gasps.

"Yes, ma'am. The Underground provides everyone with ration tickets, clothing, and education. In exchange, citizens and refugees contribute to the defense alongside our military." He clears his throat. "But only when absolutely necessary, of course."

It takes a moment to absorb this detail. The price for safety and shelter is that each family has to provide at least one body to the military in times of crisis.

Which means we're in a crisis.

"Why weren't we informed of this code when we arrived?" asks Hazelle.

"We have many laws, ma'am. It would be impossible to inform every new refugee of every single one. But our laws are all written in the Codex," the one with the gun states. "Copies are available to anyone in the Library."

We stare at him in stunned amazement. This place was supposed to be a haven, now when push comes to shove, they're just as dictatorial as the Capitol.

The officer continues, "We have a Hazelle Hawthorne listed as the head of the family. Then sons Gale, Rory, Vick, and a daughter Posy," he lists off. "Is that correct?"

"Yes, but all of my children, except Gale, are under fifteen," she answers. She's shaking a little.

"Your son Gale?" he asks. His eyes sweep the room for someone who looks old enough.

"Gale's not here," Rory speaks up. He leaves the couch to stand next to his mother. He puts his arm around her shoulders. "He's on the rescue mission to the Capitol."

The officers measure Rory up, trying to determine if he is yet of age, or if Hazelle is lying. Rory's tall, like Gale, but he's barely thirteen. He's lean and lacks the muscular build of his older brother, who spent so much time in the woods and the mines.

"Your age, son?" the officer asks.

"Twelve. Almost thirteen," he answers. "But I can volunteer in Gale's place."

"Sorry, son. We don't take children." No, that's what the Capitol does. But the Underground will take unwilling adults, so what's the difference, really?

"Mrs. Hawthorne, I'm afraid the responsibility falls to you."

Hazelle looks stunned, but squares her shoulders, trying to pull herself together. "Sir," she says. "I have three children. Who will look after them?"

"They will join the other families in the lower bunkers. Evacuation will begin when the conscription has concluded."

Hazelle takes a deep breath and gently loosens Rory's grip on her shoulders.

"You'll have to look after them, Rory," she says.

"I can do it," he replies steadily. But he swallows hard. "Don't worry about us."

This can't happen. I draw the line when the soldiers try to gang-press Hazelle. I'm shocked when she doesn't say anything more. Just resigns herself. I know that Gale was young when he took up the responsibility of providing for his family, but it's not okay. And they shouldn't accept it. Rory's only twelve. They need their mother right now. Are Seam families that used to being treated like cattle that they just take it? Not Gale, that's for sure. If he were here, he'd put a stop to it.

Of course, if he were here, there'd be no need for Hazelle to go. And that reminds me.

"You can't take her," I argue. "You've got your draftee from this family."

"It's not on the records," the officer says.

"Then you need to hire better record keepers," I retort. Unlike the Hawthornes, I'm not used to being pushed around by the local authorities.

"Madge, it's all right," Hazelle says. I know she's trying to keep me out of trouble, but she shouldn't at the expense of her family.

"No, it isn't." I put myself between Hazelle and the door. "You don't owe them anything else."

I put all the authority I can into my voice. "Look, the oldest son is already a Mockingjay soldier." I lower my voice so that the kids don't hear, and try to put an edge in it. "And the odds aren't looking so good for him, not after Peeta's speech." We were able to watch it in the large conference room on Level 1. But after the Capitol cut the broadcast, all the civilians were sent to their quarters to await further instruction. Not a very encouraging sign. "This family can't afford to give anymore. Move on."

The soldier doesn't deny this. Instead, his eyes are back on the tablet. "Your name?"

"Margaret Undersee."

He scrolls down on his screen. "Ah. They'll be looking for you in the dorms. But I'll send you along myself."

I blink, amazed at myself for not seeing _that_ coming. In fact, I walked right into it.

"Madge is the only one left of her family," Hazelle argues. "Surely there's a provision in the conscription codes for that?"

"I'm afraid not. The law still applies," says the officer stonily. He's already yielded enough for today and he's not going to budge anymore. "A woman doesn't pass on the family name, anyhow."

Under this interpretation, he's decreeing that the Undersees are already extinct. The thought chills me like a bad omen.

…

Shell-shocked, I pull myself away from Hazelle and the kids and join a stream of grim-faced men and women in the corridor. They are herded along by Mockingjays to Level 1, which has become the front of the battle. The lifts are closed because the tremors are becoming more constant now and the power is failing. We take the stairs six levels upward. Some are coming from much further down in the Underground.

Halfway up from Level 2, my legs feel ready to give way. I'm short of breath and sweating. My grey shirt sticks to my back. Just one more bend in the staircase and we'll finally have reached Level 1.

Someone grabs my arm and I almost lose my footing. I assume it's someone stumbling behind me. We've all caught our tired feet on the stairs at least once, reaching for anything to keep our balance. I don't even bother to see who it is anymore, but then I hear my name.

"Madge?"

It's Katniss. She must have joined the rest of us only recently because she doesn't look winded in the slightest. Behind her, some man who doesn't look like he's from District Thirteen, huffs and puffs up the stairs like the rest of us. I stop long enough for her to climb up next to me on the step, then we resume climbing together.

"They want you to fight, too?" I ask breathlessly. That seems odd. Shouldn't they protect the symbol of their rebellion?

"She needs to be visible to rally the morale of the troops, and hopefully send a clear message to the enemy about who they're dealing with," says the purple-faced man. If he's anything to go on, the enemy is up against a very sorry group of non-soldiers.

"Who's he," I ask under my breath.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," Katniss answers, not bothering to lower her voice. "He's a Gamemaker."

I grimace. "Oh." I couldn't be more disgusted if she asked me to kiss pig droppings. It must show on my face.

"And a rebel leader, I might add," he adds with a sniff.

"Do you know what's happening then?" I ask, wondering if he's decided to be Katniss's manager or something, given how he's taken to answering questions for her and follow her around. It's weird.

He blusters, "Well, I'm afraid I've been with Katniss since the fateful broadcast."

"Where?" I ask Katniss.

"On Level 2, in the hospital," she says.

"I thought the head nurse let you move in with your family?"

"She did, but that's not where my family went after the broadcast. Prim and my mother had to report to work," says Katniss. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"You could have joined us," I say, touching her shoulder. "The Hawthornes would've welcomed you."

Katniss bites her lip. She knows she could have without me telling her. She didn't want to leave her sister alone in case something did go wrong. Like an invasion. In some ways, Katniss is very simple to understand. Her motivations center around one person. Well, two persons now, I suppose. Prim she always meant to look after. Peeta snuck up on her.

"How did Prim manage to work in the infirmary?" I ask as we near Level 1. I'd rather talk about anything than what we're about to do. "Doesn't she have to take classes like Vick and Rory?" Well, if they ever get a chance to take classes without a war getting in the way.

Katniss frowns in a bemused, affectionate sort of way only she can pull off. "Prim's been taking care of the sick and wounded since she could walk. They didn't dare turn her down," she murmurs. "Anyway, that's where she is now. It's too close to where we're going to be fighting."

Fighting. The reminder makes my knees feel like they've acquired extra hinges. They wobble.

"Maybe they're evacuating to the lower bunkers like everyone else," I try to soothe, though frankly I'm more terrified for us.

Katniss shakes her head. "Not until all the patients have been moved first. Who knows how long that will take?" She breathes shakily.

"It'll be all right. I know it."

Katniss's eyes narrow, and I know she doesn't buy it. Well, I was lying anyway.

…

Lines form for equipping the draftees with battle gear. I recognize the room as the one where they processed the newly-arrived refugees.

We receive little instruction. They make us file in line to receive our gear while superior officers pass by us and deliver instructions through megaphones. I'm already confused and probably trying too hard to figure out what they mean by how we should hold our guns, use the scope, and what formations they're calling out.

I receive a helmet. It slides around on my head whenever I move. I turn to see if Katniss is having the same problem, but Plutarch Heavensbee has maneuvered her to the end of the line without me noticing. I push past the other draftees, suddenly terrified that I'll be separated from her and made to fight alongside of strangers. If something happens to either of us, I want us to be together.

Katniss is arguing tersely with a Mockingjay when I reach her, but the soldier ignores her _and_ the gun she's waving in his face. He shoves a fighter pilot's full helmet over her head, then he throws a jacket over her grey clothes for good measure.

"You'll be the first one in line for the firing squad if they recognize you," Plutarch reasons while he fumbles with the straps of his bullet-proof vest. I roll my eyes. He's already assuming that we've lost.

The helmet muffles Katniss's cursing, but not completely obscuring them. I've never heard her use those words before. I have a feeling that I know who taught them to her. I've learned a few choice words myself.

A stone-faced soldier hands me a gun. Hell's teeth, it's heavier than it looks. "I don't know how to use this." I shudder as a wave of nausea curls through me at the feel of the cold weapon's weight in my hands.

"It won't matter," the soldier tells me frankly. "They'll take this level. Just try to slow them down."

Next we're shuffled into the same hangar where the UTS Cole landed when we first arrived in the Underground. The hangar looks more cavernous for the lack of the largest of the hovercrafts that used to fill the tarmac.

A man dressed in full regalia climbs a scaffold rolled next to one of the smaller hovercrafts that was left behind. We're ordered to be silent so that the director of the Underground can address us. His name is Jareth Nibbs.

"Soldiers," he addresses us grimly. "Hangars 10 through 13 have been destroyed by missiles. That means ther are eight more between us and the Jabberjays. Our air fleet is overrun. Captain Pike ordered a fall back, attempting to regroup. Enemy hovercrafts are landing in the vale below our ridge and they are prepared to come on foot. Until our hovercrafts return, we are the buffer between the Jabberjays and our families."

It's not looking good for our families, I think to myself. Not if this rag-tag group of people are their final defense. The director ends his speech, stepping down from the scaffold. Then we're ordered to take cover behind anything we can find while we wait for the attack.

Small groups of other make-shift soldiers huddle together, whispering, looking pale. Somewhere, someone drops a gun and the smack of it against the tarmac echoes painfully through the vast open space. I nearly jump out of my skin.

"I wish I were you right now," I whisper to Katniss.

She visibly startles. "Why?"

I think for a moment, because it was sort of a throw-away comment made to fill the wait. But it's still true. "Because you're brave," I tell her, "and, well, you've handled weapons before." Killed someone before. Almost been killed. I stare at my gun and wonder if it's been used already, or if I'm the first. I wonder if I'll be able to pull the trigger when it comes down to it.

"I also have a target on my forehead," she says wryly.

Of course she's the most recognizable of the Capitol's foes.

"But you always succeed," I say. "No matter what the Capitol throws at you. That's why you're the Mockingjay."

"Not always. I've failed once before," Katniss mumbles bitterly. She means Peeta. I watch as the admission seems to crumble her poise. I wait for her to pull herself together. Eventually, Katniss shakes herself and says, "Anyway, you're the poison ivy girl. That's pretty lethal."

I laugh a little. "One creep with a knife doesn't compare to a host of gunmen." And I remember how scared I felt of Liquor. This moment before the storm breaks doesn't compare. I'm afraid I'll do something indecent in my pants when they show themselves.

…

The distant tremors make the room vibrate. Reports come in each time a hangar falls. Next to me, Katniss's body tenses. I feel my heart swell for a long second, then burst into a frantic, pounding rhythm. An earsplitting wail crescendos then fades, then crescendos again.

The lights flicker out.

"This is it." Katniss stares straight ahead, but she's talking to me. "And this sounds stupid, but…thanks for sitting with me at lunch at school."

I blink. Where did that come from?

"They're not dead," Katniss hisses hastily. Her granite eyes bore holes in the ceiling, as if she could watch the skies if she concentrated hard enough. "Gale and Peeta...and Haymitch. I would know it."

I don't have time to reply. The whole room feels like it's a railroad car that's been thrown off its tracks and across a field. I careen forward, about to smack into the airframe, but someone catches me. Katniss.

Debris rains down from the ceiling. Chunks of rock, dust, and even rusted metal from the girders. The bomb blast fades away like the sound of a dragon gargling deep in its throat. Heart pounding against my ribcage, I am unable to register that I am experiencing another bombing.

The plate glass windows had burst into shards of glass the length of three or four dining room tables shoved together during the impact. From my angle, I can barely make out a heavy, retractable iron walls slowly lower over the broken plate glass windows that cut off Level 1 from all the rest of the underground. Katniss's grey eyes lock with mine. Our families are down there, about to be sealed underground. What if we lose? They'd be entombed, slowly running out of supplies, and heaven forbid the ventilation system shuts down, or the power supply runs out.

I feel Katniss squeezing my hand. Her face looks grey in the dim light. A cut bleeds on her forehead. "Is this what it was like in Twelve?" she cries over the din of sirens and frantic people.

"More shaking, less smoke."

Then the sharp smell of burning metal blends with the oily odor from the tarmac and ozone. The Jabberjays have been at work while we've prepared our final defense. The great maw-like hangar door turns red along the perimeter as the metal weakens under the heat of their equipment.

We watch on, unable to do anything, until it collapses onto the tarmac with a horrible, ear-shattering clangor.

The Jabberjays come on foot like so many ants. Behind them, the forest burns dramatically against the night sky. Our Mockingjay soldiers move to intercept them, and we're ordered to follow, shooting around hovercrafts and anything else we can use for cover. I quickly lose sight of Katniss in the chaos.

I fumble with my gun, pulling the trigger. Bullets ricochet everywhere. I'm thrown down on my backside from the recoil. I feel overwhelmed by it and manage only to hide underneath the remains of a pockmarked water barrel as Jabberjays swarm around me.

Director Nibbs formally surrenders when the enemy soldiers reach the iron wall.

…

A Jabberjay soldier pushes me forward as we're lined up against the side of the hangar. He reminds me of Peacekeeper Niles from back home. Another soldier takes my gun and shoves me against the wall with the others. They quickly ascertain who the officials are, Nibbs and others. They file them into an adjacent control room like a chain gang. The rest of us stay put while the soldiers' weapons are trained on us.

The sharp report of a gun makes me jump nearly out of my skin, winding my insides so tightly together that I almost throw up. Nobody falls. It takes me a moment to realize that it's one of the officials that must have been executed out of our sight.

My nerves are raw, stretched thin and taut as the strings in my old piano back home. My agitation increases tenfold when the sharp screech of the iron wall pierces my ears as it slowly recedes into the ceiling, opening up the lower levels to the Jabberjays and their guns.

_Not the Hawthornes. Please, not the Hawthornes_, I pray nonsensically over and over in my head.

But the soldiers don't move in. Instead, a truck rolls from outside. The hangar door is still on the ground and we can see the forest still burning. The truckbed carries barrels covered with all kinds of treacherous-looking symbols and a prominent black swan. A sleeping cygnet.

"What is in the barrels?" another prisoner asks.

"You'll find out," the head guard sneers. He has an angry, red nose and a barrel chest that he keeps puffed out.

_Cyanide, _someone who recognizes the symbols whispers down the line.

"There are innocent civilians down there," a Mockingjay soldier protests. He receives the hard end of a rifle in the face for his concern. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him crumple to the ground.

Barrel Chest scoffs, "No one is innocent in this stink hole."

"But the children..." someone else voices. I can't see down the line far enough to tell who.

"The children can die quickly here with their families," he says, "or slowly for our amusement in the Games."

My blood runs cold. When they find a way to release the poisonous gases, all of District 13 will become a chamber of death.

Outside, the sounds of cheering rise from the Jabberjay soldiers still stationed with the hovercrafts.

Our guards are distracted by the cheering. I don't understand why. Is it their lust for murdering more people? These are the men and women who were ordered to destroy a whole district after no provocation, after all. What do they care about saving the brats of the rebels?

I take a look down the line of my fellow prisoners and spot Katniss. I'm so relieved that she's still alive, I almost fall over. They haven't taken her helmet, but even without seeing her expression, I can tell that she's a live wire of worry and crazy for something to do to save Prim.

I've never known what it is like to have siblings until now. With Rory, Vick, and little Posy, I feel like I _need_ to protect them. The pressure rises in my chest like a storm cloud, climbing to my throat till I think I'll suffocate until I do something. Somehow this emotion is stronger than the duty I felt to my own parents. Even though I felt guilty for leaving them behind, I realized that they chose to stay. But who's protecting the little ones who can't look after themselves?

But what can I do? A fresh line of Jabberjays enters the razed hangar at a swift pace. The head guard signals for them to stop. He addresses the head of the line.

"What is it, Lieutenant Sebastian?" he asks.

"It's the hovercrafts, sir," the Jabberjay answers stiffly. "Reinforcements."

A puzzled expression crosses over Barrel Chest's ruddy face. "Who ordered for reinforcements?"

The soldier's face draws a blank. "Well..."

"That's just like HQ to assume we can't get the job done ourselves. They'll soon find that there's nothing left to be done." Barrel Chest waves the Jabberjays on impatiently. "Move along." Then he turns on us. "You!" he barks. "Back in line."

Those of us who have strained forward to listen shuffle back into formation against the wall. The guards go down the line, pushing roughly against anyone out of line. The guard about to pass over me uses the end of his rifle to knock my neighbor into the wall.

That's when the Jabberjay hovercraft nearest to the hangar entrance explodes.

We stare dumbly at the burning wreckage. At first I'm so triggered by the explosion that for a disorienting moment, I think I'm back in Twelve. Acrid smoke billows into the hangar, caught on the wind. It burns my throat and eyes, but it also burns the eyes and throats of our captors.

Somehow, around the thundering of my heart, the ringing in my ears from the explosion, and the sounds of alarm outside, I realize: The Jabberjays didn't expect any trouble from outside, but somehow something wrecked their hoverplane. Which means someone is outside, maybe working their way in...right? A sliver of hope spurs my body to action.

I smash the heel of my boot onto the guard's foot. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline I hear Gale saying, _What the hell are you thinking, Madge?_ _ He's twice your size and armed_.

_I'm thinking about Posy_, I answer the doubts in my head.

And so I grab for the pig's gun. But he's stronger and has the reflexes of a trained soldier. His rifle smashes my hand against the wall.

White obscures my vision. I hear a sharp groan of pain. It sounds muffled and far away. I don't feel anything, but my body knows something's wrong. I sink dizzily to the ground. _My hand looks_...

Then it feels like hot, prickling shards of glass are buried beneath my skin. I can't speak. Tears run down my face. The pain doesn't ebb, just constant sharp burning. Bile rises in my throat from the smoke and the pain.

_Snick_.

On my knees, cradling my splintered hand, I stare into the unforgiving barrel of the Jabberjay's gun.

* * *

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Many, many thanks to Ceylon205, who has beta'd this story! I appreciate it so much. And thanks to Geeky-DMHG-Fan who let me talk plots and characters through with her (though really she just wanted spoilers). ;) And of course, thanks to all you reviewers. Feedback is what keeps me going.

* * *

**Chapter 14**  
_Gale's POV_

* * *

"What's happening?" Nobody answers. Peeta struggles to balance himself, and then his hand shoots out, fisting the fabric of my uniform, forcing me to face his hard eyes. "Tell me."

I wrestle my collar out of the surprisingly strong grip for someone who should be skunked. "We can't get in. District 13 is under siege."

Leo's angled the Besra out of the way of the enemy fleet, but I can still see the aerial skirmish behind us through the window as it plays out over the mountain ridge that caps the Underground.

A gaping pit forms on the slope; it takes me a moment to realize that it's an enormous door, not a sinkhole. A hovercraft bearing the Jabberjay symbol, a black bird swooping in on a smaller bird, is shot out of the sky by the arrival of a small fleet of Mockingjay hovercrafts that have emerged from the underground hangars. The hangars, partitioned out of the natural caverns, follow the spine of the ridge, forming Level 1. When open, the hangars look out over the forested vale below the ridge. The old graphite mines became Levels 2 through 13 and are truly underground.

"Where can we go?" Finnick asks grimly. "Either side might shoot us down if we try to enter the Underground."

Leo and Nev exchange glances. "We know a place northwest of here, another sort of ridge or shield," she tells us. "We've used it as a rendezvous point before. There's a possibility that Jabberjays might know about it…but it's also the most likely place that we'll find help if there's any to be had."

"Take us there, then," says Haymitch.

Peeta lets go of my shirt to gape at his mentor. "What? No! Katniss is in there!" He looks like he's ready to shake apart. His emotional energy is higher than his body can physically handle. I grab his shoulder to steady him or make him sit down, I don't know. But he bucks my hand off. "Can't we fight back?"

"This is a passenger hovercraft," Leo states calmly, despite Peeta. "We wouldn't stand a chance against one of the Jabberjay Buzzards."

"The Underground will fight back, Peeta," says Nev sternly, as if his anxiety over the safety of those in the Underground, or Katniss's anyway, is a personal affront to her as a Mockingjay soldier. "You saw the enemy hovercraft go down. Mockingjays are fighting back."

"That's not good enough." Peeta sags on the floor, spent. He pulls his hair again. "Haymitch, do something," he croaks.

"What are we going to do, Peeta?" Haymitch growls.

Besides fart rainbows and bleed all over the place? Does he have a plan running around in his little baker mind? My mom and the kids are in there. Madge and Bristel and the Everdeens, they're trapped. Like Leo said, we don't have the weapons to make a dent in the siege. We'd only get ourselves killed.

...

The alcohol stewed Peeta's inhibitions as well as the pain in his body. He fusses and pleads with Haymitch. You'd think he's the only one that ever cared about Katniss the way he's carrying on. As soon as the hovercraft touches down in the stubbly meadow, I'm out of it and into the trees to get a Peeta-free breath of air.

Nevada joins me on the edge of the bowl-like clearing after a while. She stands next to me like an automaton and just as warm.

"Need something?" I ask, when the firm line of her lips doesn't crack to volunteer a reason.

"You look like you're at home." That's all.

"I don't feel comfortable out in the open, even if darkness's coming on." I grip a low-hanging branch of the nearest pine tree, feeling the sap stick to my hand.

"I see," she replies stoically. For some reason that bugs me. God knows I hate it when people turn into founts of emotion, but she should show some sort of feeling. I've caught fleeting glimpses of it from her before, so I know it's in her. I decide to experiment.

"I'm sorry about Quintus."

Nev's lips twitch. Just barely, but it's there. Her eyes lose focus for a moment, then she studies all the trees with special interest, likes she's looking for one she knows.

"Quintus flew my family to Thirteen," I confide. "He left my girlfriend a bit star-struck."

Nevada grimaces. "Quintus made himself hard to ignore, especially when he glittered all over people," she says uncomfortably. "Anyway, everyone's gathering by the Besra to put a plan together."

She ends the conversation by briskly walking away.

…

Effie Trinket took over. She organized our crew into degrees of injury and then assigned a buddy system. The most wounded remain on the hovercraft - meaning Peeta's in the hovercraft. He's drowsy again and pretty much status quo. Verge of death. That sort of thing.

"Where'd Annie go?" Nevada asks.

Finnick eyes the hovercraft gloomily. "With Peeta."

"I thought that's where Effie's sticking the really badly injured," I add.

"Annie's looking after Peeta," Finnick replies shortly.

Oh. Well. I guess this didn't turn into the reunion he'd hoped for.

"Everybody else in pairs," Effie orders. She's taken charge of Nevada's ear. She cleans off the dry blood, and then tapes the damaged lobe. I wouldn't want Effie's long fingernails anywhere near my face, but Nev doesn't flinch once.

The blood on Finnick's swollen lip dried up, but Leo hands him a wad of gauze anyway. Finnick hands it back to Leo. "We're done over here," he announces dryly.

I'm stuck with Haymitch.

"What about you, big guy?" I ask. "Any gaping wounds? I could round up some acorns to plug the holes."

"Shut up, Hawthorne," he grunts. "Just a few scratches, bruises and a set of sore balls from Effie. Now I know why the guards begged me to take her." His voice rises enough for Effie to catch that last bit.

I couldn't imagine the pink-wigged escort lifting her knee high enough in those tight, tailored skirts she always wore. But this auburn version dressed like a prison inmate would have no qualms. I bet she's wanted to knee him in the groin for years now. Who hasn't?

"Scratches I can help with. Deal with your other problem yourself." I look around. "There's got to be a cold river around here somewhere..."

"Shut up and move your sleeve."

"I didn't suggest that you had to jump in the river," I mutter, shifting the torn fabric. "Just that you could."

Haymitch unscrews the liquor bottle and grabs a wad of gauze from Effie. He pours some of the alcohol over the flesh wound on my arm to disinfect it.

I hiss as the liquid stings my skin. "Why don't you squirt some lime in there, while you're at it?" I grouse at Haymitch, while I shield my brutalized arm, dripping like a bloody cocktail, from the alcohol. But Haymitch couldn't wait any longer. He guzzles from the bottle and wipes his lips off on his sleeve.

"Well, we're out of limes, cupcake," Haymitch retorts after a belch. "Any other requests?"

"Yeah." I snatch the bottle away. "Quit drinking our disinfectant."

But he doesn't hear me because all of a sudden, mockingjays trill warning notes and the forest boils in the wind coming from a fleet of hovercrafts materializing out of nowhere.

...

The darkness works to our advantage; we ghost away into the trees before the hovercrafts land.

"His head's hitting the ground."

"Quit grabbing him by the wrist, and hold him under his arms like I told you." Haymitch and I bicker back and forth. Peeta groans through his stupor.

"Would you hurry up," Finnick calls from up ahead.

Haymitch stumbles over a root and sends a few curses Finnick's way. "We're going as fast as we can, but the flashlight's up there and we're back here in case you hadn't noticed, handsome."

After hovercrafts started to appear in the sky over our clearing, we scarpered into the woods as fast as we could with a drunk, wounded cripple. But let's face it, if Jabberjays come looking for the crew of the abandoned Besra, we're screwed. I can hear everyone up ahead snapping twigs, disturbing the undergrowth, leaving a glaring trail that practically begs the bad guys to come and get us.

We scramble for three quarters of a mile and hit the escarpment. Haymitch and I lay Peeta down on the least gravely patch we can find and take stock of the situation. We could follow the curve of the ridge southeast, but that would bring us around to the mouth of the Underground. North would take us back to the Besra and the fleet gathering there.

"We should investigate first," says Nevada, between breaths. "Find out who those hovercrafts really belong to. I'll go myself."

"Should we take a vote?" Leo asks diplomatically.

"What's the point?" she grouses. "That could be Pike."

"But how would he know about this place?" Leo asks.

"He has Takei."

We listen to them debate back and forth, dropping names we've never heard, we decide to take a vote amongst ourselves. Effie and Finnick suggest that we move on and put as much distance between us and any possible danger. I'm in favor of investigating, since everything I've got to lose is in the Underground anyway.

"So, I guess it's up to me," says Haymitch. "Hell, I'm up for taking a look. I don't fancy walking back to Thirteen anyway."

"That just makes the vote even, Haymitch," Effie snipes.

"I'm voting for Peeta too," he retorts with a smirk, making Effie glare at him. "Mentor's privilege."

"No one asked for my vote," says a small voice.

"But Annie…" says Finnick, sounding as taken aback as the rest of us.

"I can make my own decisions, Finnick," she murmurs. "I say we try to find out if those are friends or not."

Finnick assumes an injured air, but shrugs. "I guess Effie and I are outnumbered."

It's settled that Nevada and I will trail back to the clearing and take a look. Turns out she's scouted before, but never this far from the Underground, so that between the two of us, we leave a nearly impossible trail to follow.

We have to creep close to the clearing because the trees and undergrowth obscure our vision. Not one of the hovercrafts has been unboarded, and they are so close together we can't see the seals. Nevada and I split up, each angling around the clearing from a different side to see if we have any luck without exposing ourselves.

One of the hatches opens on a large hovercraft, an Eagle, I think Quintus would call it. I hold my breath because I'm only half a league away, covered by little more than scrub.

I can see the toes of two boots standing on the lip of the hatch, but the individual does not emerge. The muffled discussion of two men wafts toward me and I strain my ears to hear.

"Check the markings on that hovercraft, Grayson. Then run the numbers."

"Aye, sir."

I grin with relief. It's Captain Pike and his first officer. I scramble around less carefully to find Nev. We stumble into one another in the trees.

"Mockingjays," she pants triumphantly. "All of them."

"That's Pike in the largest one."

"Go get the others," she orders. "I'll make contact."

...

Once in the clearing, Leo snaps to attention. "Captain Pike, sir."

"Leonard," Pike acknowledges him. "At ease."

Pike surveys the returning party with a frown. "Better get that boy some attention," he says, eyeing Peeta's leg. Two of his Mockingjays come forward with medical kits. They set up a little infirmary and stretch Peeta out on a cot. Meanwhile, Pike fixes Leo and Nev with a stern expression, "Where, pray tell, is my most valuable pilot?"

Both of them take a gulp.

"Quintus covered our team while we escaped with Peeta Mellark," Nevada tells him stoically. "We parted ways in the Training Center."

Pike's eyebrows knit together. "You do realize that intercepted reports from the Capitol state that half of that building's a pile of rubble at the moment."

Nevada and Leo turn green. "How is that possible?" she asks. "He only had two grenades. That's not enough to destroy one of their buildings."

"Are you sure that's all he had?" Pike asks dryly.

"He didn't tell us his plans, sir," I step in to defend them. "We had no way of knowing what Captain McFarlane plotted."

Captain Pike relents, though he looks deeply unhappy. "Well, we have our work cut out for us, and we're down a pilot. Jabberjays infiltrated the Underground. We've got to flush them out before they inflict too much damage," he says grimly.

My stomach feels like a lead weight. We knew about the airstrike. Finding out that the Jabberjays forced their way into the Underground leaves the taste of ashes in my mouth. We gather around a hologram, which one of Pike's officers brings him. The other superiors form a knot around it as we try to come up with a strategy that's long overdue.

...

The drone of voices grows louder as the debate between Pike's officers intensifies over tactics and theory. I wonder how hard it would be to operate one of those birds and just fly our little rescue team out of here, to start the fight instead of just talking about it.

The voices rise. Or maybe it's the droning. I don't know. But then Pike holds up a finger, cocking his head to the side, as if trying to hear better out of one ear.

"Hovercraft," he says so quietly that everyone immediately shuts up to listen. Not more than ten seconds later, a hovercraft materializes out of thin air.

"Son, are you folks expecting more company?" Pike asks Leo dryly. "Or should we brace ourselves for an attack?"

"Uh, not at the moment." Leo stares at the hovercraft slowly descending. A dumbfounded expression pastes to his face. "Wait...that's ours."

We get out of the way as the Besra lands on the edge of the clearing. The hatch slowly opens. An opulently dressed man jumps out of the hovercraft. Quintus McFarlane in the flesh – looking distinctly intact and unsinged. Somewhere between the explosion and his arrival here, he's managed to snag a green and gold striped waistcoat with fur trimming that peeks out of his aviator jacket. Beneath that he's got a crisp gold dress shirt and what looks painfully like a silk tie that matches his criminally tight trousers. Even his new boots have fur trim. His goggles push back his black hair and the gold stripes that fringe his forehead.

He smiles at us magnanimously, crossing his arms like he's about to hug himself. "Ah, the happy few."

No reply comes from the baffled crowd. You'd think we'd never seen anyone from the Capitol before. Quintus pulls on his black and gold forelock and gives Pike a jaunty grin. He looks around the knots of soldiers and the hovercrafts. "You've got a fleet. Well done." With just a few strides he's among us. He slaps stunned Leo on the back. "At the super-secret rendezvous point, no less. How long has it been? Over a year."

Stunned and spooked, Leo points a shaky finger at Nev. "Her idea."

Quintus pivots on his heels till he's facing Nevada, who's standing like a statue. He saunters toward her, but keeps a few yards between them.

"Clever Nev," he purrs, drawing closer. "I'm surprised you remembered."

She blushes scarlet. "You should be dead."

He licks his lip ring and steps closer. "My mistake."

"We left you behind," she stammers, horrified by the mistake.

"Noticed."

"I..."

"-Don't deserve me?" he says offhandedly, now invading her personal space. "I know."

Nevada grabs the collar of his fancy waistcoat, and I guess she's finally decided to strangle him.

So, it's a surprise when she pulls him toward her with more force than a woman of her size should be capable of and plants a hasty kiss on him. Quintus exhales an undignified _hoomf_ of surprise as she lets go of his collar and throws her arms around him. He winces. "Go easy, love. I'm damaged goods even if I look stunning."

"You idiot," she snarls into his chest in a gaspy, weepy way that makes it awkward to look at her. Haymitch coughs and makes a grab for the alcohol.

"Who is that guy?" Peeta asks from the cot where we've forgotten all about him. He's looking less gray, but just as wobbly as ever.

"You don't remember?" I ask. Then I recall that Peeta's slightly inebriated. "Quintus. He's the pilot we left in the Capitol," I answer bemusedly while Nevada grouses that _stashing grenades in your pants is NOT a plan._

"My god," Peeta croaks. "They tortured him."

I shake my head. "No, he always looks like that. Piercings and all."

...

Eventually we have to send somebody over to tap Quintus on the shoulder. It's a unanimous vote for Captain Pike, who turns out to be the pilot's former instructor. The man boldly taps Quintus on the shoulder and gets shoved aside for his efforts.

"Beat it," Quintus mumbles around Nev's ear.

_"McFarlane."__  
_  
Quintus manages to pry his lips away from Nevada and face his superior. Of course, he keeps his hands anchored on her waist, but that's a compromise and he's not about to blush over it.

"Nice of you to join us, Captain."

"Yes," drawls Captain Pike. "Now would you two mind rejoining the rest of the fleet? We need a pilot with brains, but not the kind you're currently utilizing."

They rejoin the rest of us, who are milling around the hovercrafts, grabbing a bite to eat.

"You had time to do your hair and buy a new wardrobe?" Finnick asks.

Quintus perks up. "I told my Great-Aunt Tigris that it's a bit much," he demurs. "But gad, I've been out of the loop for three years—"

Nev clears her throat impatiently.

Quintus smirks. "Sorry, love. You can take a man out of the Capitol, but you can't take the Capitol out of the man." He pulls the cuffs of his gloves snugly around his wrists and says. "Now then, ladies and gentlemen, I have a plan."

Quintus took the liberty of scoping out the situation, as far as he could observe, of the Underground before searching for Pike. While the Jabberjays were able to scatter Pike's fleet during the air strike, the Mockingjays now have the advantage over their sitting fleet. While Pike leads the air assault on the enemy hovercrafts, our rescue team will combine with a contingent of Pike's soldiers to infiltrate and secure the first level. Leo will lead us through a hidden entrance that Nevada and Quintus suggest.

After a little haggling, we're ready to go. Quintus requests permission to fly a Sparrowhawk rather than join the ground force with the rest of the rescue team. Pike readily grants his request, which leads to another change.

"I can man the guns if you fly," Nev tells Quintus shyly.

Quintus allows a grin to snake across his face. "Yeah. That's how we do." Then he calls out to the rest of us bits of chopped liver, "All right folks. Balls to the wall."

I go with Leo, Finnick, and others from Pike's fleet to storm the Underground. First, Pike suggests that we change out of our Peacekeeper gear, providing us with spare Mockingjay jumpsuits.

I shed my white garb where I'm standing and pull up the black uniform, instantly feeling the effect of not dressing like a tool from the Capitol.

"Where's my uniform?" Peeta asks. I turn to find him scooting off his cot. I stare at him in amazement.

Peeta looks up. "What? Where is it?" Nobody answers. When Peeta realizes we're leaving him behind, he turns a peculiar mix of white and red. "I'm coming."

"Oh yeah?" Haymitch jeers, "You and what wheelchair?"

Peeta blanches. Haymitch's mentoring methods were always questionable, but he's right when it comes down to the bottom line. Peeta's as useful to us as...there isn't even a good analogy for it. He's in a class of uselessness all by himself. He and Annie and Effie will be staying here with a small guard.

Peeta's face turns brighter red and he tries harder to get to his feet. "I'm not sitting back here when Katniss needs me." Signs that he's about to throw a tantrum that will make his performance on the hovercraft look weak begin to manifest.

"Peeta, calm down before you hurt yourself," I order him. "Katniss will kill me if we bring you."

His furious eyes glare at me but Nev materializes at his side before he says or does anything. She pinches a nerve on his shoulder, close to his neck. Peeta slumps over on the cot.

I'm too stunned to blink. A memory drifts back to me, of Nev about to ralph on her boots at the sight of Peeta's wound. "Is that what Quintus meant by medical training?"

"We call it the Rockbridge Pinch, actually," says Leo. "He won't feel a thing for about an hour."

A shiver runs down my spine. Remind me not to get too close to her. I leave Haymitch and Nev to deal with unconscious Peeta and climb into our Besra after Leo. Pike's soldiers replace our stolen rifles with fresh ones. The weight doesn't even register in my hands anymore.

"This is getting easier," I mutter, wondering if I'd have any problem putting a hole in Liquor now after what we've been through. Probably not.

"It does," Leo replies. "But never completely."

"You do what you have to," Finnick adds grimly.

My thoughts flicker to my family, Madge, and all the Everdeens. I prepare myself to do whatever that is to make them safe again. I better have good news when I face Peeta again.

…

Leo lands the Besra long before we reach the Underground in order to keep out of sight. We meet another team made up of Pike's soldiers and one of the soldiers radios Pike to let him know we're moving forward. Leo leads the way, since this is his home turf. I take up the rear, trying to conceal the trail of a score of feet tramping through the undergrowth like they're a marching band in a parade. I do my best, but it's not satisfactory.

It gets trickier to keep on my toes, fix the trail, and keep alert in the gloom. This day must almost be over. Longest of my life, it seems. We have to dodge enemy scouts patrolling the area. Pike won't strike until we're inside, so nothing distracts the attention of their guards.

The climb rises sharply into a ledge, or a natural causeway. It's like scrambling over an enormous tree root, only belonging to the mountain. Most of us give up and get down on all fours to climb, inhaling leaf mould and getting scratched in the face by bushes, then crawling the rest of the way to the top on our bellies. I pull myself up next to Finnick and peer over the edge. The steep dip on the other side of the rise leads into the vale in front of Level One.

Finnick whistles through his teeth. Below, the Jabberjay encampment transforms the vale into a circuit board of lights, illuminating military vehicles, lean-to barracks, and supply caches. Soldiers who aren't scurrying from circuit to circuit, drill in formation. It looks like they plan to stay a while.

I elbow Finnick and point to a great big hovercraft, bigger than the Cole, parked like a sentinel in front of the hangar entrance, with an enormous gun fitted to it. I look at the gun closely, because it's familiar in shape, but not as a weapon. And certainly not a weapon attached to a hovercraft. In fact, the more I study it, the more I can see it's not a gun at all, but some sort of electrode, nearly like the ones used for welding. Magnified times a thousand.

"Look at the uneven edges along where the door ought to be," says Finnick.

I can see the burnt, bubbled effect of unwelding metal too fast with too much heat. Not that they meant to be careful with this project. They just wanted to get into the Underground fast.

Leo indicates that we're to follow him along the root-like causeway, toward the base of the mountain. I pick myself up off the ground and slip a mite back down the root. The darkness and precarious footing make us walk as gracefully as Mellark on a freshly waxed floor. The ledge widens out before it comes to that, fortunately, and the trees thin out at the bottom of a narrow stone stair cut into the mountain. The trees blocked the view of it head on. The steps wind up the side of the ridge above the hangar, covered by large, scrubby junipers that block the view of it from either side.

The stairway doesn't surprise the underlanders, of course, but I look at it with dismay. I expected the secret entrance to look less like someone's front stoop and more like a _secret_ entrance.

"Last stretch," Leo promises, leading us up.

"Is this a secret or will enemy soldiers be waiting on the other side?" Finnick asks.

"Not really, if you know to look for it," he says simply. "Which they won't."

I groan, though trying to remind myself that Nevada Rockbridge suggested this way in...so it can't be an abysmal failure.

Leo blinks at me. "Hmm?"

"Forget it," I say through clenched teeth. "Get us inside."

My calves are burning and so are my lungs when we get to the top. We all smell of juniper and sweat and dirt. Leo stares at a pad hidden behind a bunch of creepers. "It requires a password."

"Don't you know it?"

"Yes, but using it may alert the Jabberjays that the door has been used. I don't know how much they've taken over inside or if they're watching the boards," he says. "I'll have to disable the door completely."

We take a breather while he fiddles with the wires. He zaps himself a few times. "Ouch." He sucks on his fingers then resumes his work.

"Couldn't we just shoot it?" Finnick grumbles.

"Not without anyone else hearing the report," I remind him.

He impatiently pushes his hair around on his head, but lets it drop.

"Aha!" Leo gloats as the circuits fall from his hands and the door pops open.

Finnick claps him on the back, humor restored. "Well done. Let's get off this awful stair."

But the staircase isn't done. It leads down into the other levels. Finnick glowers at it. I don't blame him. Leo cheers us both up by pointing out a steel door at the first bend in the stairs.

"That's the door we want," he says.

Finnick and I shoulder past him and the others, but they follow closely behind. I reach for the handle, turning it as soundlessly as possible, expecting it to open out into the hangar or the rooms behind the glass partition - and for a slough of Jabberjays to be waiting for us.

The door opens in midair. I scramble backward into Leo before I see the series of catwalks lining the perimeter of the hangar ceiling - nowhere _near_ the hangar floor. I misjudged the dark stairway and just how deep the cavern would have to be to house hovercrafts.

"I'll go first," says Leo while I recover.

"Yeah."

Leo shoulders his gun and steps out cautiously. The girders offer very little in terms of cover. Our only hope for not getting shot is to shoot Jabberjays before they're in range of us. Bleak, but we're getting used to that.

The hangar looks deserted except for a line of soldiers moving tanks of something noxious into Level One. The great glass wall must have shattered during the battle and an iron wall-like curtain hangs halfway down over the shards that haven't fallen out of the sills.

We keep crawling along the girders, watching the line of soldiers marching deeper into Level One. We could pick them off and keep that the tanks from reaching their destinations. Then I remember all the uniforms drilling outside. Twenty of us against hundreds. Just the thing we need.

"Hey, Leo. How much damage would we inflict if we blew up those tanks?" I ask. We could cream the soldiers bringing it in and do some damage to anyone coming to find out what had happened.

"Suicide and murder, all rolled up in a nice little package," he replies.

"Oh." Suicide would defeat the purpose.

One of Pike's officers takes over from here, spreading us out along the catwalk as quietly as possible. The majority are posted at the two poles of the girders. Finnick, Leo and I look for a vantage point closer to the back of the hangar, closest to the heart of Level One. It's the enemy soldiers already inside of the Underground that I'm worried about. The others will tackle anyone who might come in through the maw.

The girders vibrate. At first I assume our movement along the swaying catwalk causes it. But even the air seems to buzz, like something's causing it to concentrate into a tight space.

Then an explosion rocks the bunker. I almost lose my grip on the ironworks and faceplant on the girder. My gun swings on the strap, cracking across my shoulders. Hell's teeth.

Pike's here. That's encouraging though the party responsible for the explosion is not immediately apparent.

Pike's officer urges us to keep moving, joining us with five others. My ears feel like they're full of cotton, so I rely more on his gestures. The girder over the hangar maw looks ready to collapse. The others have retreated into the doorway or followed us. Spark-filled smoke from the enormous hovercraft we saw from outside issues out, filling the maw. The reek of burning metal and oil, and the sharp scent of ozone fills the air and makes my eyes tear up.

I wipe blood off my lip and take the rest of the catwalk on my knees. I watch the hangar through the side of the girder, but also notice the thin gaps in the catwalk slats, noticing things I didn't before. A line of grey-clad prisoners comes into view, guarded by no more than a dozen of the Capitol's soldiers. I recognize Sprocket from training as one of the prisoners. It's difficult to identify who the rest of them are because they're staring at the mouth of the hangar, where wreckage burns, leaking black, oily smoke into the sky. I can only see the tops of their heads and maybe the outline of a nose.

The air thunders like boulders being dropped and bounced over the ground. Lights pulse and die. Prisoners get out of line, trying to better see the attack waged outside. Jabberjays bully them back against the wall. One prisoner goes down under the butt of a soldier's rifle and all of us along the girder instantly ready ourselves to defend the others.

The prisoners scramble back obediently in order to avoid a similar fate, except for one blur of grey who launches itself at the nearest guard.

I stare as the drama unfolds below me. The poor fool isn't fast enough to grab the guard's rifle. The crack of a hard object against the wall reverberates through the hangar. A sharp, high cry follows. The grey blur drops to the floor, coming into focus: The golden top of someone's head; the voice I recognize from another incident.

I grimace. Goddamnit! Of course she'd be here. Of course she'd try to grab a rifle. I can't leave her alone for a day but she goes looking for trouble!

The Jabberjay points the barrel of his gun right into Madge's face, but my gun's ready, and so are those of our team. I sling myself over the girder and put a bullet through the guard's soft helmet. He breaks apart like a melon. Madge throws her arm over her head with a cry, falling back against the wall.

That blows our cover. The guards forget the prisoners and send bullets ricocheting off the ironworks. We pick them off like a score of sharpshooters, but then more soldiers come back to investigate. Prisoners grab the paltry amount of rifles off of the dead guards and scatter to hide behind any object they can find. All except for the crumpled blond, a prisoner who darts over to help her, and the unconscious prisoner on the ground.

The helmet comes off. A familiar black braid rolls down her back. Katniss looks up at the girders once. She drags Madge away out of my line of sight and then the next thing I know, Katniss dodges bullets as she scarpers along the wall further into the hangar with a rifle slung over her back. It takes me a moment to get that she's racing to climb the girder, even if that puts her in closer range to the enemy fire. She takes a running leap to catch the lowest rung of a series of rings embedded in the wall as a sort of ladder. Similar to the kind that rusted away on the power line posts back in Twelve. Jabberjays fire at her rather than at us so I scoot closer to the end of the girder to provide cover while she climbs.

I grab Katniss's hand at the last, pulling her up next to me. Katniss settles down at my side, leaning over the girder like the rest of us and whips her gun around.

"I'm glad to see you," I say candidly, following suit. She answers by picking off a Jabberjay advancing on one of our guys on the ground.

"Madge?" I bark as my gun kicks back.

"Under a work bench," she says shortly. "Peeta?"

"Woods."

From here on out, it's just the view from the scope, a blur of Jabberjay uniforms, and the kick of the rifle against my shoulder. I stop to reload.

"Gale." Katniss elbows me. "Look."

I spare a glance in the direction she's indicating.

Jabberjays are backing into the hangar from deeper within Level 1, put to rout by men and women clad in gray. Everyday clothes of mechanics, teachers, and catering - not soldiers. They're all a blur until Katniss points a tall, lanky sliver of a person hanging back. I can't see clearly enough but the dark smudge that must be hair nag at me. I use my scope to see better. Sure enough, I know that kid who's joined the rout.

Dammit, Rory! Is my whole family out to get themselves killed? I lower my gun and climb down from the girder. "I have to get down there." I scramble to get over her. "I have to cover my brother."

Katniss shouts after me, but I'm taking the ladder rungs as fast as I can. My gun plods against my back in a steady rhythm.

I jump down when I'm close enough, landing with a thump on both feet. The sharp shock hurts my feet, but I ignore it. In no time I'm among the grey sea of bodies. It's worse, on closer inspection. Most have guns. Some have rolling pins or electric bread knives. They see my black uniform and leave me alone – good thing Pike had the foresight to make us change out of the white Peacekeeper getup or I'd be dead as a doornail before anyone recognized me.

I shoulder my way past people, pushing them aside and trying not to see that one girl who couldn't be older than Prim or that grandfather who's two steps away from needing a wheelchair. I guess Peeta could've come. Then I see my kid brother. My teeth grind in anger, the kind that's fueled more by fear than anything. I grab the collar of his shirt, catching him by surprise, and shove him backward.

"You're home," he gasps.

"Rory, go back to Mom," I shout over the din. What is this place coming to? Letting kids like Rory and women like Madge, who can barely maneuver a kitchen knife, fight.

He stumbles away from me, looking startled and angry. "Gale?"

"The hell are you thinking?"

"I'm not a kid anymore," he shouts back fiercely.

"We're not having this argument while Jabberjays shoot at us." I try to drag him behind me toward the center of Level One. "Now fall back." I give him a shove, but his feet plant themselves into the floor. "Go on!"

"No!" Rory gives me a hard look before he shoulders past me. Ow.

"Rory!" I lose sight of him in the bodies and the smoke. Expletives fly from my mouth with as much speed, anger, and force as any bullet. I'm going to kill Rory myself if we survive. Until then, I throw myself up on top of one of the left-behind hovercrafts, listing to one side on blown-out landing gear, and fire into the backs of the fleeing Jabberjays.

…

More explosions blast the forest outside. The attack drives Jabberjays into the hangar like beetles scuttling over one another. They are pursued by the rest of Pike's fleet who arrive on foot.

It doesn't take them long to see that they've been sandwiched in by the remaining Mockingjay guard and the armed men and women who were defending the lower levels in the back of the hangar, and the fresh troops via hovercraft who are pressing in from the entrance.

It's not clear to me, nor do I think it ever will be, how it ended. The blast of guns, shouting, scuffling of feet, screams of pain bang on like a saucepan full of violent popcorn kernels exploding. And suddenly it slows to just a few pops. Then nothing, like some enormous, invisible eiderdown muffled all of the noise.

Nobody fires. Even the moans of the dying grow quiet.

Does anyone know what it means? I slide off the hovercraft roof where other underlanders stand stock still and confused, glancing from one to another.

Out of the smoke, some kind of hybrid vehicle, like a topless car spent a cozy night with a raft, drifts inside. Pike in full Mockingjay regalia stands up. A knot of Mockingjay soldiers moves through the hangar until it reaches the hoverbot. My heart jumps in my throat when they hoist Katniss up beside him. I can tell by the set of her shoulders that she's as unnerved as I am. A soldier hands her a brightly colored pistol, like a flare gun.

Captain Pike gives her some sort of instruction and her arm lifts into the air. She fires straight up.

It's not a typical flare. Gold flames streak and spit into the air, then explode with a bang. Golden light sheds off of it like glitter and an image appears: A broken band of gold and a Mockingjay in flight. The Rebel seal shimmers in the air - I lose count of how long. It feels like forever.

One by one by one, the Jabberjays who haven't already dropped their weapons do so. The guns smack sharply on the tarmac, drawing the noise back into the hangar.

Outside, hovercrafts still engaged in destroying the Jabberjay encampment, but the Underground bunker is ours.

…

The uninjured Jabberjay soldiers offer themselves taken prisoner. The ones that don't face a deadly and immediate ultimatum. The rest are detained in the gymnasium on Level Two until the families evacuated to the catacombs beneath Level 13 are safely returned to their quarters, freeing up that space for the prisoners.

A biohazard team safely removes the tanks filled with chemical while the underlanders and soldiers left standing busy themselves with their tasks of restoring the Underground. Medics and volunteers carry the injured away. I'm supposed to help shuttle Jabberjays to the gym, but I ignored that order, just like old times.

I push past other soldiers calling after me, climb over wreckage for a better look, but I don't see Rory. Don't see him anywhere. Instead, I see piles of the dead. Jabberjays hunched down on their knees until they're ready to be moved. More wreckage. Smoke.

And then out of the smoke, a bloody-nosed kid steps my way with buckets of water in his hands, putting out fires in the destroyed hovercrafts.

I try to call his name but my throat constricts. Rory glances up and stops in his tracks. Sliding off the wreckage in front of him, I grab my little brother behind the neck and hug him harder than I have since he turned five. Water spills down my pantlegs and the buckets crash to the floor.

_Gerroff, _Rory says something muffled into my shirt. I pull back. "What?"

"Gah, you're suffocating me," he grouches, rubbing his neck.

My eyes narrow. "Good, 'cause I am going to kill you after what you pulled," I snap back.

"If the Jabberjays didn't, then I doubt you will," says Rory with his nose turned up like the urchin that he is.

We're at an impasse, where I either make good on my threat or don't. We stare at one another, feeling angry, relieved, scared, more angry. Then Rory grins. He knows I'm not going to kill him. Or punish him, or anything.

I shouldn't have laughed but did. It makes Rory's grin curl into a full smirk. "I guess I'll go find Mom, then."

"Not a chance." I pick up the heavy buckets and shove them at Rory. "If you're a man now, then get back to work."

Rory rocks back under the weight of the buckets, but my duty as older brother is done here. "Then where are _you_ going?" he shouts as I hightail it past him, on to the next thing.

…

The hangar has sixty-five different kinds of work benches. Not _one_ of the damn things has a blond stashed underneath. Figures it wouldn't be that easy. The legs gave out under one bench, strewing tools all over the floor that sometimes throw off my footing. I mumble curses at them, turning around in circles, wondering where in hell she'd be. Best case scenario, a medic found her and moved her to the infirmary. Worst case, I have to start looking under the tarps.

I'm not checking the tarps. We didn't win today so that she could end up dead. I go around again, starting back along the wall where the prisoners had to stand. I walk past the patch where her hand got it. The guard's body has since been removed. Katniss dragged her out of sight in this direction. I scan the workbenches again. Still nothing. I step backward, gazing upward and around the crowded shelves above the benches. She couldn't get up there, but she also didn't just disappear. I take a few more steps back, wondering if she somehow managed to climb up to the catwalk. The speculation is more of a desperate last resort than an intelligent possibility. Even if she could make the jump, her hand couldn't tolerate the climb.

"Gale. Stop."

The voice startles me out of my skin. My boot catches on something and I halt before I lose my balance.

"Don't fall in," the voice murmurs behind me.

"_Madge?" _ I ask incredulously.

I pivot cautiously around. Sure enough, the ground falls away into a pit. I look up quickly and see a row of similar pits with tracks on either side. These must be used for fixing hovercrafts or other vehicles.

I look again at the hole in front of me. Madge nestled herself into a corner of the pit, blinking up at me in quiet disbelief. "You're home," she says, echoing Rory.

"Told you it'd be a short trip," I mumble without thinking while trying to gauge her condition. Pain twists her face. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders in sooty, limp waves. The raw skin around her bottom lip makes me think she's been biting it quite hard. Her uniform's covered in gore. "Madge?" I say again stupidly. I jump down hastily, tingling with relief. "I looked all over for you."

"The bench wasn't safe," she tells me shakily. "I crawled down here after Katniss left me."

I kneel down next to her and pull her into my lap. Madge gasps, biting her lip. I forgot about her hand.

"Sorry, I—" I stammer.

Madge exhales slowly and shakily before she can speak. "No harm that hasn't already been done. Don't worry," she murmurs the lie, looking over me with wide eyes. Her good fingers comb my hair back. "You aren't hurt?"

I kiss her trembling lips. They're warm and alive. Mine are grateful. "Never better," I tell her. I've been hungry to have her back with me again. I don't know when I became so dependent on her presence. "I love you."

Madge buries her face in my neck. I try to think of something else to say, but nothing sounds right. I stroke her hair. The pit muffles the noises of the hangar. A strange, buttery kind of feeling spreads over me. I guess it's the first time we've been safe in the last twenty-four hours. But I do hear something suspiciously like sniffling. I lean back and sure enough her eyes are red.

"It's okay, Madge. Everyone's safe now," I soothe.

That seems to be the wrong thing to say. Her face screws up. "It's not okay," she moans into her gore-spattered hand. "We had no idea if your team made it out alive. And then the airstrike. I'm tired of bombings and soldiers and guns. They follow us wherever we go."

I'm tired of it too. I just saw my kid brother running around with a gun. The war isn't over yet, even if we routed a piece of Snow's army today. More horrible things can happen. Right now we're getting away with a few flesh wounds. But Madge might not walk away with only a busted hand to show for it next time.

"Let me see." Gently, I peel her right arm away to reveal the injured left hand she's cradling. Bile burns the back of my throat. The purpling, swollen skin hides the evidence of the bone damage, except in her fingers.

"I told you to stay safe," I grouse, reaching to push her messy hair out of her face.

"Bossy," she mumbles dazedly, wiping the moisture out of her eyes.

"Bossy? You're my responsibility, Madge," I remind her. "Ever since I found you again in the meadow – don't you forget it."

She frowns ruefully. "I won't forget," she promises. "But each family had to send someone to fight. Compulsory conscription."

Well that explains everything. "That's how Rory got his hands on a gun," I mutter darkly.

"Rory?" she stammers, looking confused and alarmed. "Oh no. He shouldn't have been fighting."

I bite my tongue. I can't talk about Rory's appearance without wanting to yell now that the relief of finding him alive has worn off some.

"Where were you then?" Madge asks me. "How did you get in?"

"We took some back stairs to the rafters. We got here just before the first hovercraft exploded. Saw you try to take that gun." I swallow the rant I'd prepared for the stupid way she put herself in more trouble. She's already paid for that. And I did promise awhile ago not to yell. And well, I'm glad this is something we can fix. Not like the people lying under canvases and tarps.

"I thought he'd shoot me for certain," she admits shakily.

"He would've. What were you thinking?" I ask, more out of morbid curiosity than to accuse.

"About the kids." Her wide blue eyes shine in her darkened face as she relives it. "Those soldiers wanted to poison the Underground. I had to do something. Lucky for me, you came."

"Yeah," I say wryly, not wanting to encourage her to stick her neck out while assuming I'll be around to save her. "I'm everyone's hero lately."

Her mouth pops open like she's remembered that she left the oven on. "Oh! Peeta?"

I roll my eyes. "It always comes back to him."

That seems to break Madge from anguish she's been feeling. She even smiles a little. "Poor you. I guess that means he's okay."

I'm more frank with Madge than I will be with Katniss once she tracks me down, which is only a matter of time. "Well, he's drunk, shot, and cranky, but otherwise okay."

"Well, where is he?" she asks.

"We left him in the woods." I shrug. "Which, you know, he should be right at home in."

"You're mean."

"That comes with being an older brother."

Her eyebrows knit together. "I'll remember that when you're cuddling with Posy."

"I don't cuddle," I glower.

Madge rests her head on my shoulder. My arms instinctively gather around her waist. "Of course you don't."

That settles things for a while. We sit with my nose in her hair and her breath on my neck. I don't know how long. My butt goes numb from sitting on the concrete. I worry when Madge starts shaking like a leaf.

"Gale," Madge murmurs. Her voice sounds strained. "My hand hurts a little."

Damn, I forgot. Madge looks pale and she's probably shaking from trying to resist the pain. I'm an idiot for not whisking her off to a healer right away.

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

…

I lope wearily out of the infirmary, pinching the bridge of my nose. A cloudy headache forms just above my eyebrows. I could sleep where I'm standing. But that would be hoping for too much. I left Madge with an over-worked Nurse Chapel and my mother, who received a tip that I'd returned. The kids are all right, tucked into bed while Prim Everdeen watches over them. Huh. Who'd have thought she'd be old enough for the responsibility? Now I _should_ be returning to my responsibilities. Whatever those are.

When I open my eyes again, I find Katniss leaning against the wall waiting for me.

"Catnip." I should stop calling her that. She's seventeen, not twelve. It's hard to break a habit.

"Gale."

I slump against the wall next to her and give her a sideways glance. "So, you got to be their mockingjay in the end, huh?"

"I don't even know how they found me in the chaos," she grumbles.

"Simple. You're the most recognizable girl in Panem." I don't say any more because she looks nauseated by the thought. The corners of my lips turn up. At least some things haven't changed. "So, where do you want me to start?"

To Katniss's eternal credit, she waited with stony patience for an opportunity to corner me about the mission. But she's worn it thin by now.

"Is Peeta all right? What happened after the speech? Where is he?" she asks in one long monotone breath that belies how frantic she feels.

I pinch my nose again. "One at a time, Katniss. I haven't slept since yesterday."

"Tell me he's all right."

I purse my lips and try to catalog Peeta's condition. Double bum leg, tipsy, a few bumps to the head, left behind under extreme protest because he's an invalid. Rockbridge pinch.

"He's fine. Never better," I bluff. "We escaped with him almost immediately. Nothing too exciting. A bullet grazed my arm, though," I add.

Katniss closes her eyes. "Thank god," she murmurs. "Thank you, Gale." She throws her arms around my neck. I hold her. It's comfortable and familiar, but I accept it for what it is.

"Forget it," I reply wearily. She probably will forget my part in the rescue once she gets a look at Peeta. Which I'm guessing will be soon because Haymitch strides toward us out of the infirmary with fresh bandages winding down his bicep. He pins Katniss with humorless grey eyes.

"Well, sweetheart," he barks. "Are you coming or not?"

…

Haymitch contacts the team protecting the rescued prisoners and tries to deal with the chaos of a complete changeover in leadership at the same time. He looks like he's enduring it as much as you can expect a guy to enjoy a toothache. During the flight, Katniss, the rescue team, and I are briefed on what's happened during the invasion and a little of what's in store. Katniss listens indifferently as she slumps in her seat, but I'm interested now that I know my family rests safe in our quarters.

One of the first things the Jabberjays did upon securing the Underground for themselves, was to round up identifiable leadership and treat them to a firing squad. That included Plutarch Heavensbee and Director Nibbs, whom I never clapped eyes on. It's a sobering fact all the same.

Steps were taken after the Mockingjay victory. A new council formed in less than an hour according to some emergency provision in their Codex. Someone brilliant decided to give Haymitch the position that Plutarch formerly occupied. None of us really knows what that position involved. Finnick says Heavensbee just seemed to be everywhere and know everything, like some kind of liaison between rebels in the Capitol, the districts and Thirteen.

"The new council named Captain Pike the new stand-in director until a vote is organized," Leo tells us adoringly. He seems to falter somewhat, as the perpetual wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens. Like he can't make up his mind about it. "Though some council members object because he wasn't born in the Underground."

_"Tch._ I'd vote for him any day._"_ Quintus waves away their worries with an elegant flick of his rhinestone-and-leather-clad hand. Then he forwards to the next song on the list currently piping through the borrowed Kite's speakers.

The hovercraft angles as Quintus prepares to land. Katniss presses her nose against the window. I watch the different expressions break over her face. It's amazing how one frown can look so different depending on how she squinches up her face.

The ant-like figures on the ground grow larger and more discernable as we descend. So does Katniss's agitation. I put my hand on her knee to stop her restless legs from jiggling the seat more.

She looks about to apologize, but she gasps instead. "Peeta."

Dough boy sits propped up near a fire looking more sober than when we left him. Katniss beats her fist against the hatch in frustration, waiting for the pilot to unlock it. Meanwhile, Peeta's struggling to his feet, favoring his left leg. Effie helps him on one side and Annie on the other, but he's shaking them off to stand on his own.

The hatch opens when we're safely on the ground and Katniss flies out like a bat on fire. She clears the distance between Peeta and herself in seconds, launching into Peeta's open arms. A faint _oomph_ wafts through the clearing. Even with her arms clutching him around the middle, he wobbles onto just his good leg.

His hands hover in the air around her waist like she's made of mist and touching her might cause the vision to evaporate. His eyes are all whites. I can hear Katniss blubbering something. Slowly, Peeta's hand reaches out for the wispy end of Katniss's braid, worrying the curl between his fingers. I guess it feels real enough to him because he squeezes her closer to his chest and starts blubbering back.

Nobody's in a hurry to get out of the Kite, except for Finnick. He walks hesitantly though, like any sudden movements might send Annie running for the woods. He's barely reached her when Effie starts organizing Annie and their escort, shuffling them off toward the other vehicle so her own two victors can have their moment. I don't think that woman ever takes a second off.

By the time I get out, Katniss is holding Peeta at arm's length, taking in his condition. He needs to sit down, if the pasty color of his skin means anything. I help Katniss shoulder his carcass back to the hovercraft. If he resents me for leaving him behind, he seems to have forgotten the fact in Katniss's presence. He's even less phased by Quintus's fishtackle appearance this time around.

"I get a seat this time?" he mumbles weakly as we settle him into one of the front row seats. His eyes slant in a way that means trouble. "I had to roll around on the floor on the last flight."

His resentment might not be as forgotten as I thought.

Katniss shoots me a glare so fierce I take a step back. "What? He was unconscious at the time."

_"Gale!"_

I look around for Haymitch to back me up, but he's trotted off with Effie, no doubt. Peeta gives a weak smirk. "Now who's the dough boy?"

"It's not too late to leave you in the woods," I gripe.

"Bet you'd like that."

"Shut up, both of you," Katniss snarls, tossing herself into the seat next to Peeta.

I take the seat behind them, trumped. Quintus gets the hovercraft in the air and nobody says a word until we're speeding back to the Underground.

"Where are we going?" Peeta asks Katniss.

"To Thirteen," she answers. "It's really there. Twelve—"

"Twelve is gone. I know." His lips quiver. "President Snow didn't hide that from me. My family?"

Katniss opens her mouth to answer, but her face crumples instead, which is all the answer he needs. But a tear slips down her cheek and he's the one wiping it away. I know the story of the bread now, so I don't see why she'd cry over Mrs. Mellark. And her sons never did anything for Katniss. But then I get it. She's not crying for the Mellarks. She's crying for Peeta's loss. She never could hold up against anyone else's pain.

"Did they hurt you at all? Besides the bullet?" Katniss asks.

A dark shadow clouds Peeta's features. He shrugs.

"Oh, Peeta." Katniss clutches his hands in hers. "What did they do?"

"It's hard to talk about," he says with a shudder.

"You don't have to tell," says Quintus sagely. "But it might be better for you if you do. Eventually."

"Some other time?" Peeta asks Katniss. His eyes look vague and unsure.

Katniss nods. "When you're ready."

Peeta turns around in his seat. "You did save my life, so thanks," he says contritely.

"Forget it," I grouse. I feel more surly because of his thanks than I did for Katniss taking his side.

Peeta stares at Katniss like he's bewitched. "I'm not likely to forget. I didn't think I'd get to see..." He can't finish the sentence.

"Shh," she soothes, cupping his haggard face with her hand.

It strikes me how much Katniss has changed since I first saw her on the hovercraft. There's no trace of that shattered girl anymore in this young woman who's fussing over Peeta. It's the end of an era, I guess. There might have been a time when my friendship might have helped her feel whole, but not since Prim's name echoed through the square on that reaping day.

I settle into my seat and wonder why it doesn't feel so bad. The answer isn't far away.

….

Everyone springs into action when the hovercraft lands in the Underground. The rescue is taken out of my hands at that point. Effie pushes everyone toward the lower levels like she owns the Underground. Who knows. She might. Haymitch and Katniss help support Peeta and carry him away. Quintus, Nevada and Leo rush off to report on the mission. I look around for Finnick and Annie, but they've ghosted away to who knows where.

Huh.

I shuffle down the corridor watching them all get farther and farther away until it's just me in the eerily deserted and battered Level One. The last day and a half catch up with me. My priority to find my family keeps me from falling asleep against the wall. But maybe one little rest won't hurt.

I lean into the shadows outside of an office. The gap between the doorway and the wall keeps me standing. I might have fallen asleep for a few seconds because I start to slide backward. That's enough to wake me up.

Or maybe it's the feeling that I'm not alone.

Two arms wrap around my waist from behind. My first startled thoughts are _Danger! _and _Kill it!_ as the arms tighten enough to squeeze the air out of me.

Lucky I have learned to curb my impulses. In a distinctly non-violent way, I place my hands over the knotted fists where it rests on my stomach. My fingers gingerly worries the thick padding around one of the hands while the rest of me soaks in the weight of her arms around my ribs, the slow rise of her chest against my back as she breathes.

Madge.

"I'm glad you're back," she whispers.

"Me, too." I look around to see if anyone's looking after her. "Should you be up here?"

I hold onto her right arm, pulling her around and holding her to my chest. She looks kind of funny. Her head lolls to one side and she blinks slowly like cold syrup.

"I snuck out," she announces.

"You snuck out under my mother's nose." That's impossible. Especially given how she's slumping into me, wobbling on uncooperative legs.

Madge shakes her head. Or maybe she's nodding. It's hard to tell. "She found out that your hovercraft made it back and went to get the kids."

"Oh." Well, that's settled. Now for the hard questions. "Madge, don't take this wrong, but…are you drunk?"

She looks indignant for a whole second, but then her face smoothes into a bland, sleepy smile. "They gave me something for my hand. It makes me feel swimmy."

Yeah, that would be morphling. I remember how the drug feels. "Okay, back to the medical wing with you until the stupor wears off." Then I grind my teeth because by then she'll probably be begging for more painkillers for her hand.

Her smile fades and her good hand clutches the back of my shirt. "No, I'm fine just...would you kiss me already?" I blink at her for a moment. That might be the morphling speaking through her filters.

"Come here." I fold her closer. She's so relaxed that her lips don't quite cooperate - her heart isn't even accelerating like mine. Ironic laughter bubbles up in my chest because after what we've been through, you'd think we could at least have a decent kiss. I wonder if this is considered consensual when she's so doped up she can't even make her lips move the way she wants them to. I grin the side of her throat. "Maybe we should take a rain -"

That's when I realize that the steady plodding sound isn't Madge's heartbeat. I can feel her pulse against my lips and it's steaming along pretty healthily despite the morphling. Which is good for my ego but...

My head snaps up in surprise. Katniss and Peeta didn't get as far away as I thought. In fact, they've materialized only a few feet away.

"Um." Katniss perches on the balls of her feet, one in front of the other, like she caught sight of us in mid-stride.

"Thought you'd all be gone by now," I grouse accusingly over Madge's head.

"Peeta needs a wheelchair," Katniss mumbles hastily. "Effie said there's one in the other hovercraft."

"Where did Haymitch go, then?"

"We barely go to the lifts when a bunch of officials pounced on Haymitch and told him he had to attend an emergency meeting with Pike and the council. Effie went with because…she's not technically supposed to be here."

"Oh."

"Hello, Peeta." Madge smiles blandly, turning in my arms, to see who snuck up on us. "Welcome to Thirteen."

Peeta looks blinkered. "Thanks."

"Do you need help carrying him?" I ask out of politeness. I'm trying to figure how that would work, though. I have a feeling that if I left Madge propped up against the wall, she wouldn't be there when I got back.

"No," says Katniss, though she's bowing under Peeta's weight. "Er. You two carry on."

"Fine." If she wanted help, she'd have said yes.

Madge and I watch them retreat into the hangar. As Katniss limps away with him, Peeta pretends to whisper, "I guess he liked the morphling."

* * *

**To Be Concluded!**

_Thanks for reading! _

Note: The P/K reunion scene was inspired by Burdge-Bug's speculative MJ reunion drawing on DeviantArt. It's lovely.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Well, I guess this is it, folks. Somehow 100 words of a scene multiplied into a 150,000 word story. Thanks for making it fun! _

* * *

_**And So We Run**_

_**Epilogue**_

_Madge's POV_

...

"We often asked my honest friend  
If we'd hold on tight till the end.  
Your knowing smile just breaks me down  
And leaves fighting words in my mouth.  
I will light you up, I will light you up." _Light_ _You_ _Up_, Pilot Speed

* * *

_Spring, Year 1, New Reckoning_

"Is she ready?"

Gale's muffled voice drifts around the wall separating the kitchen from the living room of our Underground quarters. The rough baritone makes my stomach flip with anticipation.

"Just about," Hazelle replies. "Posy helped tie the blindfold."

The blindfold and half of my hair with it, I muse. But she is so proud of herself for tying a knot that holds.

The sound of Gale's footsteps across the kitchen tiles alerts me that he's coming toward the couch that I'm sharing with Posy and Vick. We're playing a guessing game while I wait for Gale to arrive and whisk me away on some undisclosed outing. My heart's been beating with excitement all day. I don't know what he has planned, and I don't know why. Perhaps a celebration of the end of the war and his recent discharge? I don't know. It's not an anniversary or our birthdays.

Posy places the next object in my hand. So far, we've guessed combs, a book, a broken shoelace, and Vick's pet salamander Bristel Jr. This time it's a cloth item. Should be simple, but with my eyes covered, I feel like my sense of touch is off-kilter.

"Is it a…tea cozy?" I ask without conviction, sticking my hand through a hole.

Posy giggles. "No, it's Gale's underwear."

My mouth pops open and a distinctly old lady-ish sound comes out of it.

"I told her not to do it," says Vick, though he's barely stifling a giggle himself.

"I'll take those back, thanks."

We jump as Gale (presumably) snatches the underwear from my hand. A blush creeps up my neck and cheeks. I'd forgotten about him for a moment.

"Um. Hello," I greet with nose-wrinkling embarrassment, turning my head vaguely in the direction of his voice.

"Ready to go, Madge?" he asks. I can hear the amusement in his voice.

"Are you going to tell me where that is?" I ask, forgetting about the underwear in light of much more exciting event.

"Hmm. No."

I'm hardly surprised. He hasn't budged an inch in the last two weeks that I've begged him to tell me what today is all about.

Something presses against my knee, I'm guessing it's Gale's leg as he stands over me. "Come—"

"Not _that _hand, Gale!" Posy cries with her shrill little voice in my ear. I'm startled as her tiny body leans over me protectively.

For a second, my heart sinks. Not because I don't like it when the Hawthornes are protective of my hand, but because I like to forget about the offset fingers and the aching that makes it difficult to do the simplest things. And because I don't like being treated like a cripple, least of all by Gale, just because of a few aches and pains.

"It's okay, Posy," I say calmly. "Gale wasn't going to hurt me." Of course, I can't see what he meant to do, but he's always so conscious of my hand that I don't doubt the truth of that conviction.

"Here," says Posy. "Use this one." She offers up my right arm like it's a relic. Gale and I both laugh at what a little manager she's become.

Gale's fingers grip my right hand and he tugs me off the couch. He helps me on with a coat, which is…interesting.

"Good luck!" Hazelle calls after us. For some reason, that makes my nerves ratchet up a notch.

"Mom," he grouses under his breath.

I hear Hazelle chuckle. "What?" she says a little too innocently.

…

"You're being a good sport," Gale commends as he leads me down the corridor. I sincerely hope no one's around to see me walking around with a blindfold.

"I have no choice," I laugh, clinging to his arm. "I'm at everyone's mercy with this rag over my eyes."

"Well, there is that," he agrees, sounding pleased with himself.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see in a minute."

Argh. The blindfold makes me feel disoriented and, well, it has the obvious effect of not letting me figure out any clues! "I'm going to fall over," I sigh.

"I wouldn't let that happen," he promises. "Stop here."

His arm braces my shoulders while he does whatever it is he's doing. A familiar dinging and the sound of metal rolling back are reassuring.

"Hmm. The elevator? Intriguing. Are we going on a field trip to the boiler room?" I tease as he helps me inside.

Gale scoffs. "Boiler room? That's the best you think I can do?" he grouses playfully. "Have a little faith."

The doors grind together and the gentle lifting sensation tells me it's moving. I poke Gale in the side. I think. "Well, a boiler room is a step up from a dumpster or…or wherever else kids used to go in District 12."

I feel his shoulders shrug. "I wouldn't know," he says. "I spent all my free time in the woods or the Hob."

"I never went to the Hob." It took all my courage just to go to the woods with Katniss. The rumors circulating through the town families about the tough crowd who frequented the place were not encouraging.

"For good reason," says Gale. I can't see him, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Snob," I chant.

Gale makes an exasperated noise. "Madge, you can't be a snob about frequenting a black market. It's a contradiction of terms."

"The Hob centered around an exclusive set of people. That's snobbery, even if that exclusive set of people happen to be – oh, is this our floor?" The elevator stopped and the doors roll back. I'm thankful for something in the Underground that is so audibly obvious.

If only Gale obliged me as much. He doesn't tell me which floor it is, just ushers me through the corridor. I hear other people around us this time. Their steps make scattered sound patterns that match the different paces and treads. Then all of a sudden the sound quality changes, from the close, clipped sounds of feet moving to an echo-y emptiness of a vast chamber. It feels like the walls have fallen away. I gasp, sensing open space and cool, moist air.

"Where are we?" I ask shrilly.

"Here," he says infuriatingly. He places his hand on the small of my back, steering me this way and that till I'm almost dizzy trying to figure out the pattern.

"Stop here."

I stop. Gale's fingers fumble with the knot at the back of my head, accidentally pulling some of my hair. He apologizes and then the blindfold falls away.

It takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust to the light. When I can see properly, I step back and gape at what's in front of me. I'm staring up at a mural-sized picture of a man and a woman flying on a rocket while kissing. Underneath, _Hobgoblin_ is written in bold green script. Huh. New pinup.

I turn slowly toward the nose of the hovercraft where the pilot leans out of the hatch with a chesire grin on his face. Quintus tips his head in a gallant gesture. Color creeps up my neck. Gale gives me a knowing look, like he expected this reaction. I elbow him.

"Mornin'," Quintus greets. "Beautiful day for a flight."

"That's what he always says," a woman Gale once introduced to me as Nev grumbles as she strides past us. She looks like the woman on the rocket pinup down to the teal stripe of her long, side-swept bangs and loose-flowing hair. "It's overcast and chilly outside. Don't let Quintus fool you. Oh. And congratulations on your honorable discharge, former Soldier Hawthorne." She says this in one long string of words that might seem a little abrasive, but Gale looks like he's used to her brusque manners.

"Thanks," he replies to her back.

Nevada climbs into the hovercraft in front of us. I can hear Quintus say, "Overcast and chilly is my favorite."

"We're going with them?" I guess with wide eyes. A trip in Quintus's Hobgoblin is the last thing I expected. I try to hide the fact that I'm a little disappointed. A double date isn't what I had in mind. We've had plenty of those with Katniss and Peeta.

Gale grins at me. "Yeah. I thought you might like some quality time with Quintus while you still can. Er. Strictly off the record, I think he's seeing Nev."

"Ha-ha." He's never going to let me live that one non-date down.

Gale throws a bag he brought with into the fuselage and turns to hand me up.

"But where are we going?" I persist, ignoring his hand. "And _why_?"

Gale's head lolls backward and he groans. "Hell's teeth, Madge. Didn't your parents ever surprise you when you were a kid?"

"My parents weren't really the surprising kind," I point out. As mayor, surprises were pretty much my dad's worst nightmare. Like the day Thread showed up.

Gale purses his lips. "Well, it's not too late to educate you. So, play along like a good girl."

That earns him a pitiful shove in the arm.

"Hop in, pretties!" Quintus calls to us from the pilot seat. There really isn't anything else to do but take Gale's hand and let him pull me inside.

…

"That's where we met Captain Pike's fleet," Gale tells me, pointing out a basin of cleared land in the middle of the forest as we fly overhead.

I watch appreciatively until the view disappears into the forest, as Gale, Nevada and Quintus recount their reunion there. Gale hands me a beef and potato pasty that Hazelle and I made that morning, under the pretext of teaching me family recipes. Except they didn't have squirrel in the Underground, so we used beef. She says she used to make them for her husband every day to take for lunch and dinner in the mines, and she did the same for Gale. I had no idea that these stuffed pastry pocket things were actually meant for our trip. Hazelle is too sneaky for her own good.

"I think I prefer the squirrel version still," he says, biting into one that Hazelle made. I can tell she made it because it doesn't look like someone sat on it like all of mine do.

"You'll have to move back to the woods then," I joke around a bite of potato.

Gale looks at me blankly. Did I say something wrong? It's not as though we haven't talked about the possibility of leaving the Underground one day.

"Or not," I mumble.

"How's your hand feeling?" he asks, abruptly changing the subject. "It's bothering you, isn't it?"

I've been pressing it against my waist. I don't think about it. Gale's picked up on the habit as a sign that the ache is especially bad. It's not awful, but I think the humid chill in the cabin makes the ache worse. It's like I have the hand of a geriatric woman. Compound that with the amount of tea I drink, and yeah, old woman. I just need lace and a cat.

"I'm fine."

Gale grimaces like he always does when I lie about it. "Give it here."

His warm fingers gently massage warmth back into my fingers and hand. It feels amazing. A languor melts through my body; I lean against his arm. But there's something different this time. His hands are warm but clammy instead of dry. My first thought is that he's coming down with something. I look up to see if he's pale or if his color is unusually high.

Gale feels me watching him and his eyes meet mine. "Am I hurting you?" he asks.

"No. I just wondered if you were feeling all right," I murmur. "Your hands are clammy like you have a fever."

His eyebrows raise a fraction. "Me? I'm fine." He wipes his hands off on his trousers. "Don't worry about it."

I shrug.

"We're going to be landing in a few minutes, folks," Quintus calls back. "Take a look out your window."

Gale and I both lean over the seats to look out the side window. Low, heavy clouds mist over a thick, sweeping evergreen forest dripping with moisture. Gale points to the west toward recently cleared land. The soil is all turned up in ruts and sectioned off in box-like patterns.

"What is this place?" I ask, not expecting an answer as Gale has been tight-lipped about _everything_ today.

"New colony," he replies, watching my reaction carefully.

"Oh!" My hand flutters to my mouth. _"This is?"_

The corners of his lips turn up with pleasure. I lean over him even more to get a better look at the piece of land that has been debated over in a string of endless bureaucratic waffling. But the need for an aboveground community is incredibly pressing given the sudden increase in population due to war refugees.

"I don't believe it!" I cry. "Gale, nobody's said a word about clearing land yet. The plans hadn't even been approved, I thought."

"Well, it's supposed to be under wraps right now," he tells me. "But I have a few connections."

"With who?" I ask suspiciously.

"Well, my best friend _is _the Mockingjay and her mentor happens to be Haymitch, the head of district liaisons." We both snort over the fancy title. "I dropped a few names. And, you know, it doesn't hurt that I am a decorated war hero," he says smugly.

"Plus, Hawthorne knows a dapper and snappily-dressed pilot who happens to feel obliging once in a while," Quintus butts in.

"Yeah, yeah," Gale drawls. The camaraderie between to completely opposite men is funny to witness.

Quintus brings us down expertly on the thin landing strip. Gale opens the door and jumps out, offering me a hand down. It's drizzling steadily and the air has a flat, heavy feeling to it.

"Did it get warmer out?" I ask, blinking into the drizzle that turning my hair into a frizzled monster.

"Like a storm's coming," Gale muses. He leans back into the fuselage. "Hour okay?"

"Take your time, kids," Quintus answers. "If this hovercraft's a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'."

"I didn't want to know that," Gale replies.

"Me either," Nevada mutters form the cockpit.

"They aren't coming?" I ask.

Gale grins in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. "Nope." He tucks my arm through his and heads off into the mud town.

"We're just here to walk around, huh?" I press.

"No, there's something particular I want you to see."

He leads me past the clearing, down a path through the trees. He doesn't say much for the twenty minutes we walk. His jaw works like he's mulling something over in his head, so I take my time getting to know the forest. The smell of damp leaf mould and pine sap entices my nose, reminding me of the weeks we spent running from Twelve. In some ways, I miss those days the most. Sure, they held terror, but it led to my new family and a feeling of belonging I thought I'd lost with my parents.

Eventually, the trees thin out again in a small, muddy glade surrounded by ferns. We're soaked to the skin, pushing damp hair out of our eyes. Through the trees I can glimpse the blue-gray sheen of a body of water.

"Is that a lake?" I ask.

"River," he says. It's only one word, but the way he says it, low and sleepy, packs a lot of meaning. The river's where we started. _That must be why he brought me here_, I realize. A symbolic return to our beginning. How thoughtful!

I start to pick my way through the mud, only to discover another staked out foundation lies at our feet.

"Is this for a house?" I gasp.

"Looks like it," Gale replies vaguely, staring at the patterns with a puzzled expression. "Hard to tell when you're looking at it from the ground."

I step inside the boundary and walk around, stopping in a small, squared off area.

"What is this room, do you think?"

"Bathroom, I guess," he answers, pointing at the pipes sticking up from the mud. "It'll have real plumbing."

Gale says it like indoor plumbing is a novelty…which I guess it was for him until we made it to the Underground.

"All right," he drawls. "You're nose is all wrinkled up. What are you thinking?"

I'm not about to admit that I'm thinking about how he grew up as a poor boy from the Seam while I was the only child of the mayor who grew up in luxury. Considering that it hasn't been a year since Gale decided that out social differences don't matter.

"It's kind of small," I say stupidly, meaning the bathroom.

"Is it?" he asks, scratching his head.

"It's the size of a linen closet," I try to say, digging myself in a hole. Oh well. It's someone else's house to worry about.

"Oh yeah, linen closets. Fancy," he teases.

"Did you want to show me the river?" I ask, changing the subject. I step out into the next patch of staked-off mud. A hallway?

"Why would I show you a river?" he says through a grunt.

"Well, I thought—"

I look over my shoulder. I blink at the open space where he had been standing, then look down. He's bent over, wrenching up stakes and moving them to widen the bathroom. A horrible (in a wonderful sort of way) suspicion erupts in the forefront of my mind, like puzzle pieces suddenly forming into the picture, the whole day making sense. I quickly look away and walk into the widest square as an unusually strong case of nerves does something wobbly to my legs.

Gale clears his throat. "Say, Madge?"

I squeak. Words are not forthcoming. "Hmm?"

"Could you look at me for a second?" he says.

Of course I can. I'm not paralyzed with anticipation. I'm not absurdly nervous. I'm not suddenly shaking like a leaf. Turn around slowly. Look down.

My stomach drops out. _"Oh!"_ I gasp, stepping backward in surprise, with my hand over my beating heart.

"Since I'm down here, I wondered…" He's on his knees in the mud, in the…I do the worst possible thing for the moment. I laugh.

Gale scowls. "This is not a very auspicious beginning."

I cover my mouth with my hands, trying hard to curb the giggles in my throat, but that only makes it worse.

Gale gets out of the mud and crosses his arms. His eyebrows of doom take center stage. I can't tell he's not mad, just annoyed that things aren't going according to plan.

"Out with it," he gripes.

"I'm s-sorry," I stammer, "are you proposing in someone's bathroom?"

Gale blinks at me for a moment, then looks down. A self-deprecating grin creeps over his face. "You're right." He grabs my elbow, leading me to a box at the end of the hallway-like area. It's a large space.

"Is this the kitchen?" I ask.

"Nope," Gale answers, pulling me against his chest. He smirks. "This is our bedroom. Surprise."

My stomach does a swan dive. It's becoming a familiar sensation. It kills the laughter. "Our b-bedroom?" Our house!

"Hypothetically, yes." He drops an open-mouth kiss on my throat that makes my eyes roll. "But you haven't said yes yet."

"You didn't ask me fully," I somehow manage to reply.

Gale's dark eyes gaze at me with amusement. "You interrupted, I recall."

"Please begin again. I promise not to laugh." It's true. I'm in danger of a completely opposite emotional response.

Gale takes a deep breath. His forehead creases in concentration. "Margaret Undersee," he murmurs, using my full name. "Will you marry me?"

My throat constricts with the wave of emotion that passes over me, turning my voice to water. "Yes, please?"

The crinkles around Gale's eyes deepen with gladness. His hands cup my cheeks. I shiver as his thumb wipes raindrops from my lips. His eyes study them like he might never see them again. Which is ridiculous because I just promised to stay with him till I die. Casting patience to the wind, I throw my arms around his neck, planting my lips on his. In our muddy bedroom! A squee gets mashed between our mouths. It must be infectious. Laughter rumbles in Gale's chest as he crushes me against him. Ow.

I pull away to investigate the item digging into my hip. It's coming from the bulge in his pocket.

"Oh, I almost forgot." His voice has a warm, husky rasp that goes straight to my yo-yo stomach - it will never recover from today.

Gale digs in his pocket, pulling out a box. I watch him open it carefully, revealing a small sapphire set in white gold. How in the world did he pay for that? I silently gasp. He pockets the box, but holds the ring between his fingers. With his other hand, he takes my left. For a startled moment, I look at the damage, the hand that could once move with style over the ivory keyboard of my grandmother's piano – but can't make a fist now - and a strong urge to hide it from his sight takes over. How can I wear such a beautiful thing on something so ugly? And the closer I look at the ring and my finger, my heart sink as I realize it can't possibly fit over the swollen joint of my knuckle.

But he doesn't try to. Instead, Gale presses a tender, lingering kiss on each misshapen finger. Each touch makes my heart feel like it's closer to bursting. My eyes brim over as he kisses the sensitive skin of my palm, like my hand is something precious to him.

Gale takes my right hand and slips the ring onto the fourth finger. He fiddles with the band until he thinks it's just right. "It reminds me of your eyes," he murmurs.

"Bloodshot?" I sniff.

Gale chuckles. "Your eyes are beautiful and _blue_."

I hiccup.

"Are you happy?" he asks.

"You can't tell?" I reply hoarsely.

"Well, you're…crying a bit."

"Happy crying," I croak, gently sweeping strands of his wet black hair out of his eyes. "I want this so much."

"Me too." He grins impishly, belying his relief. "It would have been a long hovercraft ride if you'd said no."

That coxes a bubbly laugh from me. "I never would."

"We'll have a new beginning here," he says enthusiastically. "The council offered to make me the head of Forestry. I told them I know a woman with a political background who'd make an able alderwoman. Haymitch put in a good word for you, too."

My head spins a little with the new prospects ahead of us. "It's so much to take in."

"You don't mind that I already made plans for the house?" he asks uncertainly. "I know we didn't get a chance to talk about it."

I shake my head, saying with absolute conviction, "It will be perfect."

"Even if the bathroom is the size of a linen closet?"

I grin. "Well, you fixed that." I let the idea of living in this new place – with Gale – sink in. "This is really our new home?" I exhale.

"Sure. This is our room. Down the hall is the bathroom, closets, the kitchen and den, and the two extra bedrooms are across the way."

"Only two extra?" I ask. "Don't you think your mother should have her own for once?"

"My mother?" He cocks his head to the side, looking confused. "Madge, those rooms aren't for my mom or my brothers and sister." He lets the suggestion hang there.

"Oh," I say. I don't know why it didn't occur to me that his family _wouldn't _be moving in. "Well, it's always good to have guest bedrooms."

"I was thinking something more permanent." He nudges me.

I bite my lip thoughtfully. "Two extra rooms will be plenty, then."

Gale guffaws. "They're _big_ rooms. Lots of space for multiple occupants."

"Multiple!"

A streak of lightning interrupts our silly banter, causing us both to glance up anxiously. It's the only warning we receive before the drizzle breaks into a torrent of heavy drops coming down like a curtain. Thunder rolls over the clouds like celestial rolling pins. My thoughts speed to the dry interior of the Hobgoblin in the other clearing.

"Time to go, Madge," Gale says, reaching for me. "We'll have to run for it."

I willingly place my hand in Gale's strong, life-saving one.

And so we run.

* * *

**The End**

**A/N**: Aw, we've come full circle. I hope you've enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading.

If you'd like a glimpse of Madge and Gale's life in the new colony, and a little something Christmassy, take a gander at my short story _Christmas Cheers._


End file.
